THOU 

AND 

AFTERTHOUGHTS 


:erbeilt 
beerbohm  tree 


/.  0.  (L. 


THOUGHTS  AND 
AFTER-THOUGHTS 


*pHE    cover  design   and    decorations 
are    by    LOVAT    FRASER. 


HERBERT    BEERBOHM 
TREE  BY 

J.    S.     SARGENT,     R.A. 


Thoughts    and 
After=Thoughts 

By     Herbert      Beerbohm     Tree 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  and  LONDON 

1 91 3 


.    ■ 


I  1 


» 


TO 

MINE    ENEMY 

I    DEDICATE 
THE    FAULTS    OP    THIS    BOOK 

O  TO 

MY    FRIEND 

o 

CO 

Q. 
Ul 

I    DEDICATE 

WHAT    VIRTUE    IT    MAY    HAVE, 

HOPING    THUS    TO    GIVE    PLEASURE    TO    BOTH. 


H.  B.  T. 


r>>4 


CONTENTS 


Our    Betters  :      A     Medley 
Indiscretions  . 

The  Living      Shakespeare: 
Modern  Taste 


of    Considered 

•  •  •  • 

A     Defence     of 


Jim  :    The    Vindication    of   a  Misunderstood 
Microbe     .  ...         . 

The  Imaginative  Faculty   ..... 

Hamlet  from  an  Actor's  Prompt  Book  . 

Some   Interesting   Fallacies   of   the    Modern 
Stage        ....... 

The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

The  Tempest  in  a  Teacup        .... 

King  Henry  VIII.   ...... 


PAGE 
1 

37 

73 

91 

121 

159 
191 
209 
225 


On     Closing    the     Book    that    Shakespeare 

Wrote 301 


OUR    BETTERS 
A  MEDLEY  OF  CONSIDERED  INDISCRETIONS 


B 


OUH       B  E,  T   T   E,   IC  S. 

A  Medley  of  Considered  Indiscretions 

TT  might  easily  be  imagined  that  I  intend  to 
*  flatter  the  great,  to  admonish  the  little,  to  up- 
hold the  ethics  of  vested  interests,  and  to  make 
"  Whatever  is,  is  right  "  the  burden  of  my 
essay. 

I  have  no  such  intention.  There  is  no  more 
mischievous  doctrine  than  that  implied  in  the 
phrase  "  Our  Betters '  as  commonly  used. 
There  is  no  more  pitiable  creed  than  that  summed 
up  in  the  old  rhyme,  spoken  with  fervour  by 
thousands  of  lips,  and  sung  in  unison  by 
thousands  of  hearts  : 

"  God  bless  the  Squire  and  his  relations, 
And  keep  us  in  our  proper  stations." 

Gloss  it  over  with  good  manners,  or  what 
we    may,    this    fact    remains :    every    man    is    to 

3 


Our  Betters 

himself  the  most  important  thing  on  earth;  and 
the  first  thing  he  requires  is  self-respect,  that  he 
may  the  better  respect  others. 

The  distinction  which  is  born  of  self-respect  is 
often  met  in  the  peasant — the  man  who  is  nearest 
to  Nature.  To  create  this  sense  is  the  first  duty 
of  the  State.  The  care  of  the  individual  is  the 
safeguard  of  the  community  :  the  assertion  of  the 
individual  conscience  over  the  conglomerate  law 
of  force  is  the  triumph  of  free  mind  over  the 
tyranny  of  matter. 

The  world  is  undergoing  a  sea-change  ;  the  old 
landmarks  are  being  swept  away,  the  barbed  wire 
fences  which  separated  the  classes  are  being 
relegated  to  the  limbo  of  the  human  scrap-heap. 
As  in  our  time  Science  has  progressed  with  giant 
strides — I  mean  the  science  appertaining  to  tangible 
things,  the  science  of  bodies — so  I  believe  are  we 
on  the  threshold  of  a  spiritual  science,  the  science 
of  a  higher  sociology.  Its  premonitory  vibrations 
are  felt  all  over  the  world.  Wherever  we  put 
our  ears  to  the  ground  we  hear  a  tiny  tapping 
at  the  earth's  crust :  it  is  the  upspringing  of  a 
new  social  creed ;  it  is  the  call  of  a  new 
religion  ;  it  is  the  intellectual  enfranchisement  of 
mankind. 

Vaguely  we  all  apprehend  it,  but  we  are  slow 
to  give   it   articulate   utterance.     I   suppose  that 

4 


Our  Betters 

most  of  us  when  we  are  young — I  mean  those  who 
think  and  feel — arc  by  nature  rebels.  It  is  only 
in  middle  life  that  we  learn  to  toe  the  line  of 
expediency,  the  line  of  least  resistance.  We  fall 
into  step  with  those  whom  we  call  Our  Betters 
— those  who  are  in  power.  We  are  creatures  of 
habit  in  mind  as  well  as  in  body;  and  when  we 
are  old  (some  are  born  old)  we  cast  aside  the 
unworldly  wisdom  which  our  ethical  instinct 
taught  us,  and  put  on  the  worldly  wisdom  of 
vested  interests.  We  no  longer  think  and  feel 
for  ourselves  —  we  cease  to  be  individuals, 
we  are  swallowed  up  in  and  become  part  of  a 
system  ;  we  adopt  the  machine-made  social  laws 
of  Our  Betters.  It  is  to  our  advantage.  We 
are  on  the  make.  "  Take  what  you  can — give 
what  you  must "  is  the  motto  of  the  utilitarian. 

This  worldly  wisdom  is  forced  upon  us  in  many 
ways  :  by  the  pinch  of  poverty,  by  the  greater 
ease  with  which  it  enables  us  to  climb  the  greasy 
pole  of  fame,  by  the  avoidance  of  friction  in  our 
relations  with  our  fellow  men,  and  by  that  sym- 
pathetic and  unconscious  absorption  of  the  pre- 
vailing ideas  that  surround  us — the  cult  of  Good 
Form.  We  are  creatures  of  habit  inwardly  and 
outwardly. 

On  that  symbol  of  respectability,  the  frock 
coat,  we  wear  two  buttons  at  the  back,  though 
why   few  of   us    know.     A  reverence   for  buttons 

5 


Our  Betters 

is  indeed  one  of  the  most  curious  attributes  of 
our  common  humanity.  In  the  same  way  we 
wear  the  habit  of  our  minds  ready  made,  buttons 
and  all.  Gentility  is  our  watchword  ;  we  chorus 
the  common  hymn  of  respectability. 

I  remember  Swinburne  the  poet  telling  me 
with  a  tinge  of  sadness  of  his  own  evolution. 
He  and  William  Morris  were  friends  in  youth. 
"  At  that  time,"  said  he,  "  William  Morris  was 
a  Tory  of  the  bluest  blood,  while  I  was  a  red- 
hot  Republican.  Now,"  he  sighed,  "  Morris 
addresses  Socialist  mobs  in  Trafalgar  Square,  and 
I  write  patriotic  odes  for  the  St.  James's  Gazette." 
That  is  the  see-saw  of  life. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  rarest  thing  in  humanity 
is  independence  of  mind,  the  faculty  of  thinking 
and  acting  for  oneself  ;  the  power  to  fulfil  oneself 
at  all  costs. 

To  be  oneself  is  the  greatest  luxury  in  the 
world,  and  I  am  bound  to  say  it  is  the  most 
expensive. 

If  we  may  regard  tact  as  one  of  the  minor 
virtues,  let  us  not  despise  the  valour  of  indiscretion, 
for  to  be  indiscreet  with  discretion,  to  be  gay 
without  being  flippant,  to  be  serious  without 
being  earnest,  is  not  this  the  philosophy  of  life  ? 

It  is  this  independence  of  mind  which  is  my 
theme.     It  is  easy  to  have  the  courage  of  other 

6 


Our  Betters 

people's  opinions  ;  to  have  the  courage  of  one's 
own  instinct  is  the  badge  of  the  few.  To  be  con- 
tent to  be  in  the  minority  in  past  times  was  to 
dwell  in  the  shadow  of  palaces  and  in  the  shade 
of  prisons. 

But  there  is  still  injustice  in  the  world  ;  we 
have,  thank  Heaven,  still  the  luxury  of  scorn.  Out 
of  our  large  scorn  we  weave  our  little  epigrams  ! 

"  The  rain  it  raineth  every  day 

Upon  the  just  and  unjust  fellow, 
But  chiefly  on  the  just,  because 

The  unjust  has  the  just's  umbrellow." 

But  the  minority  of  to-day  is  often  the  majority 
of  to-morrow,  as  the  majority  of  to-day  is  often 
the  minority  of  to-morrow !  (Every  truth  has 
its  paradox.) 

Be  on  your  guard  always  against  the 
"  compact  Liberal  majority  "  of  which  Ibsen 
speaks  so  eloquently  in  the  mouth  of  that 
splendid  but  unfortunate  altruist,  Doctor  Stock- 
mann.  The  Doctor  finds  that  the  drains  in 
his  native  town,  which  is  a  health  resort,  are 
polluting  its  waters,  and  he  at  once  deter- 
mines that  the  mischief  must  be  made  public, 
that  a  new  system  of  drainage  must  be  in- 
stalled. But  his  brother,  the  burgomaster,  a 
self-righteous  and  self-seeking  person,  denounces 
him  for  his  wickedness.  Would  he  ruin  his  native 
town  ?      No ;     the   scandal    must   be   hushed   up, 

7 


Our  Betters 

the  situation  must  be  dealt  with  diplomatically. 
Doctor  Stockmann  sticks  to  his  guns,  holds  a 
meeting,  and  is  howled  down,  his  windows  are 
smashed,  his  trousers  are  torn,  his  practice  is  taken 
away  from  him.     He  addresses  the  meeting : 

"  Yes,  by  Heaven,  I  am  going  to  revolt 
against  the  lie  that  truth  belongs  exclusively  to  the 
majority.  What  sort  of  truths  do  the  majority 
rally  round  ?  Truths  so  stricken  in  years  that 
they  are  sinking  into  decrepitude.  When  a  truth 
is  so  old  as  that,  gentlemen,  it's  in  a  fair  way  to 
become  a  lie.  A  normally  constituted  truth  lives 
— let  us  say — as  a  rule,  seventeen  or  eighteen  years, 
at  the  outside  twenty  ;  very  seldom  more.  All 
these  majority  truths  are  like  last  year's  salt 
pork ;  they're  like  rancid,  mouldy  ham,  producing 
all  the  moral  scurvy  that  devastates  society.  .  .  . 
(Interruptions.)  I'm  keeping  as  closely  to  my 
text  as  I  possibly  can  ;  for  my  text  is  precisely 
this — that  the  masses,  the  majority,  this  devil's 
own  compact  majority — it's  that,  I  say,  that's 
poisoning  the  sources  of  our  spiritual  life,  and 
making  a  plague-spot  of  the  ground  beneath  our 
feet.  .  .  .  ("Shame!  Shame!")  And  now  I'll 
make  it  clear  to  you  all — and  on  scientific  grounds, 
too — that  the  masses  are  nothing  but  the  raw 
material  that  must  be  fashioned  into  a  people. 
(Interruptions.)  Is  it  not  so  with  all  other  living 
creatures  ?     I  say  it's  absolutely  unpardonable  of 

8 


Our  Betters 

the  People's  Messenger  to  proclaim,  day  out,  day 
in,  the  false  doctrine  that  it's  the  masses,  the 
multitude,  the  compact  majority,  that  mono- 
polise liberality  and  morality — and  that  vice  and 
corruption  and  all  sorts  of  spiritual  uncleanness 
ooze  out  of  culture.  No  ;  it's  stupidity,  poverty, 
the  ugliness  of  life,  that  do  the  devil's  work  !  In 
a  house  that  isn't  aired  and  swept  every  day — 
in  such  a  house,  I  say,  within  two  or  three 
years,  people  lose  the  power  of  thinking  or  acting 
morally.  Lack  of  oxygen  enervates  the  conscience. 
And  there  seems  to  be  precious  little  oxygen  in 
many  and  many  a  house  in  this  town,  since  the 
whole  compact  majority  is  unscrupulous  enough 
to  want  to  found  its  future  upon  a  quagmire  of 
lies  and  fraud."  [The  meeting  breaks  up  in 
uproar.] 

In  the  last  act,  poor  Doctor  Stockmann,  his 
soul  a-blaze  and  his  body  a-bleed,  finds  that  his 
independence  has  cost  him  his  livelihood ;  his 
family  is  on  the  brink  of  starvation,  and  he 
cries  out :  "  A  man  should  never  put  on  his  best 
trousers  when  he  goes  out  to  battle  for  truth  and 
freedom."  With  what  a  wonderful  sense  of  im- 
partiality does  Ibsen  hold  the  scales  between  the 
two  brothers — the  one  the  utilitarian,  the  other 
the  idealist !  The  author  sees  the  weak  spot  in 
the  great  man's  armour.  He  sees  also  what  is 
worldly-wise  in  the  little  man's  argument.     Great 

9 


Our  Betters 

men  have  the  defects  of  their  qualities.  Little 
men  have  the  qualities  of  their  defects,  and  they 
often  triumph  by  their  baseness.  Their  sword  is 
flattery,  blackmail  is  their  armour. 

From  the  purely  worldly  point  of  view  Stock- 
mann  had  the  worst  of  it — for  the  time  being. 
But  let  us  hope  that  in  an  unwritten  last  act 
he  got  his  reward.  Of  course,  it  may  be  said 
that  this  hot-headed  hero  might  have  gone  about 
his  reforming  in  a  more  discreet  manner.  He 
might  have  set  out  to  inaugurate  a  reform  move- 
ment from  the  various  sections  of  society  that 
would  have  profited  by  his  indiscretion.  First, 
he  would  have  set  up  a  rival  company,  and  let 
in  "  at  par ':  all  those  who  would  support  his 
movement ;  the  contract  for  putting  in  the  new 
sanitary  machinery  would  have  been  given  to 
those  who  would  vote  solidly  for  his  cause.  He 
would  have  proclaimed  that  the  pollution  was 
directly  traceable  to  a  Conservative  or  Liberal 
source,  choosing  for  his  attack  whichever  party 
happened  to  be  the  more  unpopular  at  the  mo- 
ment. He  would  have  called  a  meeting  of  work- 
men and  told  them  that  the  bloated  councillors 
who  ruled  the  town  were  endeavouring  to  keep 
the  bread  out  of  their  mouths,  that  they  were 
despoiling  their  potential  widows  and  orphans. 
All  these  divergent  interests  he  would  have 
mashed  together  into  a  party,  and  he  would  have 

IO 


Our  Betters 

called  his  party  the  "  Party  of  Purity."  No  doubt 
a  statue  would  have  been  erected  to  him  by  his 
grateful  fellow-citizens,  and  to  its  fund  he  himself 
would  have  sent  the  first  contribution  under  the 
name  of  "  Anonymous  Admirer."  But  he  lacked 
the  virtue  of  tact.  He  was  not  one  of  those 
politicians  whose  blood  and  judgment  are  so  well 
commingled  that  they  will  not  allow  their  sense 
of  right  to  interfere  with  their  interests.  Valour 
in  the  weak  is  always  dangerous. 

One  should  never  hazard  until  one  has  cogged 
the  dice  of  Fate.  The  native  alcohol  of  a  san- 
guine temperament  is  apt  to  lead  one  into  strange 
quagmires. 

A  little  mouse  strayed  into  a  wine  cellar. 
Happening  to  step  into  a  small  puddle  of  whisky, 
he  licked  his  paw.  "  H'm  !  rather  nice  that  !  " 
So  he  dipped  in  another  paw ;  then  all  four 
paws  ;  finally  he  lay  down  and  rolled  himself  in 
the  spirit,  had  a  good  lick  all  over,  and  felt  most 
royally  elated.  Then,  staggering  to  the  head  of 
the  staircase,  leaping  up  two  steps  at  a  time,  he 
yelled  out :  '  Where  is  that  damned  cat  that 
chased  me  yesterday  ?  " 

It  is  only  by  combination  that  weak  units 
make  themselves  strong.  One  of  these  days  the 
mice  may  set  up  a  trade  union — and  then  ? 
Well,  I  suppose  they  will  have  to  hire  a  terrier 
to  espouse  their  cause  ! 

ii 


Our  Betters 

However,  my  theme  is  not  mice,  but  men. 
Union  among  men  is  one  of  the  burning 
questions  of  the  hour,  and  here  I  may  allow 
myself  the  indiscretion  of  touching  upon  the 
great  question  of  Trade  Unionism,  a  question 
upon  which  I  can  speak  with  some  little  ex- 
perience. 

I  suppose  that  every  new  movement,  if  suc- 
cessful, brings  in  its  train  a  certain  amount  of 
tyranny.  "  In  righting  wrong,  we  sometimes 
wrong  the  right."  The  great  struggle  between 
Capital  and  Labour  which  is  now  going  on  is  but 
the  result  of  education.  Education  has  placed  a 
weapon  in  the  hands  of  the  democracy.  It  is  a  two- 
edged  weapon,  and  its  right  use  can  only  be  taught 
by  a  yet  greater,  a  higher  education.  Liberty  gives 
birth  to  new  tyrannies,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  a  certain  amount  of  injustice  must  accom- 
pany all  great  reforms.  So  it  is  that  the  indi- 
vidual may  for  the  time  being  suffer  from  the 
tyranny  of  Labour.  But  in  the  long  run  the 
individual  will  assert  himself — the  freedom  of 
the  individual  to  fulfil  himself  is  the  strength 
of  the  State.  Each  must  be  free  to  work  out 
his  own  economic  salvation.  The  liberty  which 
cripples  the  efforts  of  the  fittest  is  but  another 
form  of  tyranny — the  tyranny  of  the  weak  over 
the  strong.  We  have  the  new  liberty,  for  instance, 
which  dictates  compulsory  closing  on  Thursdays, 

12 


Our  Betters 

in  order  that  we  may  have  the  vitality  to  rest 
from  Saturday  to  Monday. 

When  I  speak  of  a  higher  education,  I  do  not 
mean  the  useless,  outworn  education  which  we 
wear  as  the  superfluous  buttons  on  our  coat- 
tails,  but  an  education  which  shall  be  largely 
philosophical,  which  shall  teach  the  laws  of 
health,  of  happiness,  and  of  self-esteem  of  which 
modesty  is  the  natural  outcome — the  kind  of 
education  that  Marcus  Aurelius  suggested  in  his 
"  Reflections." 

I  venture  to  think  that  much  of  the  education 
we  inherit  from  our  forefathers  is  unsuitable  to 
the  conditions  of  the  present  time.  In  this  higher 
education  we  must  begin  at  the  beginning  ;  we 
must  begin  with  the  children.  If  children  were 
taught  a  doggerel  with  a  tune  which  should  em- 
body the  simple  laws  of  health,  the  rudimentary 
laws  of  happiness,  they  would  never  forget  them 
all  their  lives  ;  but  these  things  are  taken  for 
granted.  When  they  are  young,  boys  are  taught 
to  look  down  upon  other  nations.  They  are 
taught  to  be  jingoes.  Were  they  taught  in  their 
infancy  a  world-patriotism,  there  would  be  fewer 
wars.  I  have  no  doubt  that  there  has  been  of 
late  years  a  great  advance  in  this  respect, 
but  I  remember  a  little  incident  that  looms 
out  of  my  first  visit  to  America.  It  was  at 
Chicago,   and    I    was    visiting    at    the    house    of 

*3 


Our  Betters 

highly  cultured  people.  Their  little  boy  of  eight 
years  old  came  in  from  his  history  lesson.  "Are 
you  an  Englishman  ?  '  he  asked.  It  was  useless 
to  deny  it,  for  my  accent  betrayed  me.  "  I  am," 
I  blurted.  At  this,  he  struck  me  with  his  little 
fist.  "  Well,  take  that,"  he  said,  "  for  upsetting 
the  tea." 

It  is  sad  to  think  that  we  often  learn  too  late 
by  bitter  experience  what  we  might  have  learnt 
as  children,  when  habits  are  quickly  acquired. 

Were  we  taught  in  our  youth  that  happiness 
does  not  depend  upon  riches,  nor  honour  upon 
honours,  that  our  greatest  pride  should  be  to 
fulfil  ourselves  instead  of  aping  '  Our  Betters," 
there  would  be  less  unhappiness  in  life.  We  learn 
wisdom  only  by  our  failures.  Philosophy  is  a 
filly  got  by  Common  Sense  out  of  Misfortune. 
How  little  wisdom,  how  little  understanding  of 
the  real  essentials  of  life,  do  we  often  find  in  those 
who  grow  prematurely  old  and  cynical  in  the 
pursuit  of  a  decorative  but  not  always  useful 
University  career !  Their  point  of  view  is  nar- 
rowed ;  they  have  lost  their  individuality  ;  they 
have  imbibed  from  their  "  Betters  "  ideas  of  good 
form  which  they  never  shake  off  ;  they  have  lost 
their  power  to  "  do." 

Take,  for  instance,  the  son  of  a  manufacturer 
who  by  his  own  effort  has  built  up  a  great  busi- 
ness.    The  father  sends  his  son  to  the  University, 

»4 


Our  Betters 

as  "Our  Betters"  do.  What  often  happens  is 
that  the  son  returns  to  his  home  unfitted  to 
carry  on  the  work  which  his  father's  energy 
initiated.  And  what  has  he  got  in  return  ?  The 
ricrht  to  wear  a  coloured  ribbon  round  his  straw 
hat !  Those  precious  years  between  eighteen  and 
twenty-four  have  been  wasted — those  precious 
years  in  which  he  should  have  passed  many  a 
milestone  on  the  road  of  life.  He  emerges  from 
the  University  barren  of  initiative ;  he  is  no 
longer  an  individual  ;  he  is  but  a  devotee  of 
good  form.  The  factory  over  which  he  should 
have  presided  is  run  by  a  salaried  manager  ;  the 
foreigner  outstrips  him  in  the  competition ; 
he  has  not  the  pride  in  that  which  his  father 
made,  in  that  which  made  his  father.  He  is  a 
victim  to  "  Our  Betters."  But  he  has  become 
a  gentleman. 

And  what  is  a  gentleman  ?  A  gentleman  is 
one  who  does  not  care  a  button  whether  he  is 
one  or  not.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that 
the  greatest  men  I  have  met  in  life  have  been 
distinguished  by  a  simplicity  and  a  naturalness, 
the  counterpart  of  which  one  only  finds  in 
peasants. 

I  remember  the  thing  which  struck  me  most 
when  I  first  visited  the  House  of  Lords  was 
the  extraordinarily  careless  manner  in  which 
the  peers  were  attired.      They  appeared  to  be  a 

*5 


Our  Betters 

procession  of  savants  and  market  gardeners, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  "  bucks."  The  late  Lord 
Salisbury  looked  like  a  Viking  who  had  casually 
strayed  into  Conduit  Street.  By  the  by,  it  is 
recorded  of  that  great  statesman  that  on  one 
State  occasion  he  wore  the  Order  of  the  Garter 
on  the  wrong  shoulder — a  truly  lovable  touch  in 
a  great  man.  But,  of  course,  we  cannot  become 
great  by  wearing  our  garters  on  the  wrong  leg, 
any  more  than  we  can  become  geniuses  by  brush- 
ing our  hats  the  wrong  way. 

How  easy  it  is  to  be  a  genius  until  one  has 
done  something  !  Everybody  is  a  potential  genius 
until  he  has  tried  to  do  something  in  the  world. 
Woe  be  to  him  who  does  something,  for  to  be 
understood  is  to  be  found  out. 

As  soon  as  you  have  done  something  the  noble 
army  of  log-rollers  who  were  at  your  back  will 
be  facing  you,  fiery  pen  in  hand — and  then, 
what  an  awakening  !  The  process  of  acquiring  a 
swelled  head  is  a  most  fascinating  and  pleasant 
state.  It  is  only  the  subsequent  shrinkage  which 
hurts.  I  know  these  little  coteries.  I  am  ac- 
quainted with  their  jargon.  They,  too,  have 
their  little  protective  trade  unions  which  seek 
by  their  intrigues  to  "  down  the  tools  "  of  the 
workman  who  "  docs."  To  be  peculiar,  to  be 
original,  is  the  vain  endeavour  of  their  existence. 
This  striving  after  originality  is  the  greatest  con- 

16 


Our  Betters 

vention  in  the  world.  The  really  strong  man  is 
unconscious  of  his  originality  ;  he  does  what  he 
does  because  he  must.  We  only  do  well  what  we 
cannot  help  doing. 

The  other  day  I  found  myself  in  the  Paris 
Salon  looking  upon  the  display  of  Post-Impres- 
sionist or  Futurist  and  Cubist  pictures. 

I  am  only  too  ready  to  appreciate  any  new 
phase  of  Art,  so  long  as  it  is  "  truly  new  "  or 
"  newly  true  "  ;  but  I  am  bound  to  say  that  this 
latest  development  of  the  new  art  seems  to  me 
frankly  insincere  where  it  is  not  obviously 
unhealthy. 

After  a  time  I  turned  from  the  pictures  to 
watch  the  faces  of  the  spectators,  and  while  in 
some  cases  the  look  was  that  of  humorous  toler- 
ance, it  was  mostly  one  of  set  bewilderment. 
The  public  went  about  silently,  as  though  wan- 
dering among  the  inmates  of  a  madhouse.  The 
word  of  critical  wisdom  was,  of  course,  uttered  by 
a  child.  A  boy  of  seven  years  old  stood  before  a 
picture  and,  clapping  his  hands,  turned  to  his 
mother  and  said,  "  Oh,  mamma,  I  have  never 
seen  a  green  dog  before  !  " 

In  referring  as  I  did  to  a  University  educa- 
tion,   do    not    imagine    that    I    undervalue    the 
tremendous  importance  of  such  intellectual  train- 
ing  as   our  Universities   afford   to  all   those   who 
c  17 


Our  Betters 

intend  to  follow  learned  professions,  to  whom 
indeed  the  academic  study  during  these  years  is 
absolutely  essential  ;  but  I  imagine  that  there 
are  many  callings  to  which  the  lengthy  sojourn  in 
a  University  is  absolutely  disadvantageous,  and 
that  the  acquisition  of  a  mere  social  betterment 
is  frequently  ruinous  to  the  initiative  of  those 
concerned. 

You  may  be  sure  that  when  you  hear  the 
same  complaint  uttered  by  so  many  independent 
persons,  in  so  many  sections  of  the  community, 
there  is  something  wrong  in  the  system,  and  that 
a  revolution  is  at  hand.  It  is  another  case  of  too 
much  reverence  for  buttons. 

The  great  book  from  which  to  learn  is  the 
book  of  life  ;  the  great  university  is  the  storm 
and  stress  of  the  world.  A  man's  education 
should  depend  on  his  individual  job.  A  sailor,  for 
instance,  is  none  the  worse  for  not  having  a 
University  education  :  there  is  no  class  of  men 
that  is  more  keenly  intelligent  in  grappling  with 
the  essentials  of  life  than  are  sailors.  Why  ? 
Because  they  are  in  touch  with  Nature.  They 
have  to  deal  with  the  elements  ;  they  are  eye  to 
eye  with  the  realities  of  Nature,  and  consequently 
they  are  more  indifferent  than  most  to  the  little 
socialities  which  vex  the  souls  of  those  whose 
surroundings  are  more  artificial.  How  little  all 
these  little  social  bickerings  seem  when  we  are  in 

18 


Our  Betters 

touch  with  Nature  !  How  infinitely  ridiculous  do 
these  petty  distinctions  become  when  we  look  at 
the  stars  ! 

We  often  bear  a  great  tragedy,  a  great  sor- 
row, more  calmly  than  we  do  the  minor  annoy- 
ances of  life — fleas  are  more  disconcerting  than 
elephants.  A  friend  of  mine  told  me  that  when- 
ever he  was  sorely  troubled  about  a  loss  on  the 
Stock  Exchange  or  the  non-attainment  of  a  peer- 
age, he  threw  open  his  windoAV,  walked  out  into 
the  garden,  looked  at  the  stars,  and  laughed — 
lit  his  pipe — and  was  at  peace  with  the  world. 
So  the  late  Lord  Tennyson,  when  staying  at  a 
country  house  where  the  neighbouring  lumin- 
aries of  the  county  had  been  invited  to  meet  him, 
was  asked  by  his  host  after  dinner  whether  he 
would  like  to  look  at  the  stars.  The  great  poet 
took  up  the  telescope,  and,  forgetting  himself 
and  others,  gazed  for  twenty  minutes  at  the 
wonders  of  the  heavens.  "  Well,  what  do  you 
think,  Mr.  Tennyson  ?  "  inquired  his  host.  "  I 
don't  think  much  of  our  county  families,"  replied 
Tennyson.  In  moments  such  as  these,  when  we 
contemplate  the  vast  solemnities  of  creation,  the 
sociological  amenities  of  life  are  apt  to  take  their 
due  perspective. 

There  are  many  kinds  of  snobbery — there  is 
the  snobbery  of  riches  ;    there  is  the  snobbery  of 

19 


Our  Betters 

power,  the  snobbery  of  aristocracy  (though  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  so  far  as  my  observation  goes 
the  class  which  is  least  tainted  with  this  failing 
is  the  aristocracy).  There  is  the  snobbery  of 
Socialism,  there  is  the  snobbery  of  dogma,  and 
there  is  the  snobbery  of  culture — the  snobbery  of 
what  Americans  call  the  "  high-brows  " — perhaps 
the  most  fearsome  snobbery  of  all.  Alas !  not  all 
people  who  are  gifted  with  intellect  have  the  saving 
grace  of  intelligence ;  they  lack  that  tolerance 
which  is  characteristic  of  all  great  and  noble 
minds.  Kindness  is  the  crowning  triumph.  There 
is  nothing  meaner  than  the  contempt  of  the 
greatly  endowed  for  those  less  favoured  than 
themselves.  There  is  nothing  finer  than  modesty 
in  the  great,  for  that  modesty  implies  a  divine 
humour. 

There  is  one  direction  in  which  it  seems  to 
me  the  imitation  of  Our  Betters  is  most  lament- 
able, and  that  is  in  the  pronunciation  of  the 
English  language.  And  here,  of  course,  the  Stage 
can  fulfil  a  useful  mission  in  preserving  the  vigour 
and  the  breadth  of  Shakespeare's  tongue  ;  indeed, 
it  is  difficult  to  be  lackadaisical  in  speaking  his 
virile  verse. 

Let  us  consider  the  way  the  language  is  spoken 
by  the  poorer  classes.  The  Cockney  accent  has 
had  many  vicissitudes  ;  it  has  undergone  great 
changes  in  our  time.     Take  the  case  of  Dickens. 

20 


Our  Betters 

We  know  that  Mr.  Weller  was  very  shaky  as  to 
his  w's  :  "  Spell  it  with  a  '  wee,'  Sammy."  This 
particular  vulgarism  has  quite  gone  out  of 
abuse. 

The  dropping  of  the  "  h  "  will  no  doubt  be  a 
thing  of  the  past  in  the  next  generation,  as  it  is 
regarded  as  vulgar  in  the  present.  Again,  the 
dropping  of  the  "g"  is  a  vulgarity  in  persons  of 
the  lower  classes,  as  it  is  a  sign  of  smartness  in 
Our  Betters. 

The  preservation  of  the  strength  of  the  English 
language  is  indeed  all-important.  The  very  latest 
Cockney  accent  is  what  I  may  call  of  the  order 
"  genteel."  The  vowels  are  squeezed  almost  out 
of  recognition.  "  Home  "  becomes  "  home  "  ; 
"  time  "  becomes  "  taime  "  ;  "  town  "  becomes 
"  teown  "  ;  "  girl  "  becomes  "  giairl."  It  seems 
to  me  that  the  children  are  taught  in  the  schools 
this  terrible  jargon  of  gentility,  to  which  the 
vigorous  vulgarity  of  the  early  Victorian  Cockney 
was  infinitely  preferable.  The  imitation  of  Our 
Betters  is  once  more  to  be  deprecated.  There 
is  nothing  so  terrible  as  "  refainement." 

Every  man  should  have  a  pride  in  the  par- 
ticular work  to  which  he  is  called.  Instead  of 
thinking  only  of  the  reward  which  that  work  brings 
him,  every  workman  should  learn  to  love  and  to 
take  a  pride  in  his  craft ;   it  should  be  to  him  even 

21 


Our  Betters 

more  important  than  football.  I  do  not  mean 
the  mere  laying  of  bricks — that  will  soon  be  done 
by  machinery  ;  I  mean  that  work  into  which  he 
can  put  himself,  his  own  being,  his  own  skill  ;  and 
there  are  hundreds  of  these  crafts.  The  painter 
feels  this  pride — Raphael  and  Rembrandt,  Joshua 
Reynolds  and  Watts  felt  it.  The  great  architects 
of  the  world  feel  it.  The  sculptor's  hand  moves 
to  it.  Benvenuto  Cellini — his  work  was  himself, 
his  better  self.  Even  so  does  the  good  gardener 
feel  a  pride  in  his  garden;  he,  again,  is  near  to 
Nature.  The  maker  of  wall-papers,  the  weaver 
of  silks,  the  inventor  of  subtle  machinery,  the 
drawer  on  wood  and  brass,  the  driver  of  a  motor- 
car, should  share  this  pride  of  handiwork.  All 
these  things  can  be  made  to  have  a  value  beyond 
the  mere  wages  they  bring.  There  is  the  joy  of 
the  workman  in  his  work. 

And  every  man  to-day  can  participate  in  the 
beauty  of  art ;  he  has  his  place  in  the  Sun  of  the 
intellectual  world.  A  shilling  will  buy  him  a 
Shakespeare.  Throughout  the  country  nowadays 
the  working  classes  have  access  to  the  art  treasures 
owned  by  the  rich  who  are  willing  to  share  them 
with  their  fellow  men. 

I  have  expressed  the  opinion  that  education 
brings  certain  dangers  in  its  train  which  have  to 
be  counteracted  by  a  yet  higher  education.     So 

22 


Our  Betters 

also  have  the  efforts  of  Science  in  her  battles  with 
Nature  to  be  eked  out  by  a  yet  deeper  science. 
Take  the  most  recent  scientific  development — 
that  of  Eugenics.  In  former  days  Nature  killed 
off  the  weaklings  in  the  most  drastic  and  practical 
manner  by  consumption  and  by  various  diseases  ; 
man  had  to  stand  the  test  put  upon  him  by  the 
assaults  of  an  army  of  unseen  and  unknown 
microbes  ;  the  unfit  were  rooted  out  by  the  brutal 
laws  of  Nature — only  the  strong  survived.  To-day 
when  Nature  says  to  Man,  "  Thou  shalt  die," 
Science  steps  in  and  says,  "  No,  thou  mayest  live." 
Then  comes  Nature's  retort,  "  If  thou  causest  the 
unfit  to  survive,  then  I  will  afflict  their  offspring 
with  infirmity  even  to  the  third  and  fourth  genera- 
tion." To  which  Science  replies,  "  Very  well, 
Nature,  we  will  strike  a  compromise — I  will  see 
that  the  weakly  shall  not  be  born  into  this  world." 
And  there  we  stand  at  present — hesitant  as  to 
how  to  carry  out  our  side  of  the  contract.  Science 
is  once  more  Nature's  slave. 

It  is  always  hazardous  to  beat  one's  head 
against  the  brick  wall  of  Nature,  for  it  is  apt  to 
bleed — the  head,  I  mean.  I  suppose  it  is  but 
logic  that  if  the  lower  forms  of  animals  prosper 
by  scientific  selection,  so  must  Man,  the  highest 
development  of  animal  life,  be  subject  to  better- 
ment by  such  a  process. 

Of  all  the  movements  which  are  in  progress  for 

23 


Our  Betters 

the  development  of  the  race,  I  imagine  that  none 
is  capable  of  such  far-reaching  results  to  the 
health,  the  moral,  and  the  sane  patriotism  of  the 
inhabitants  of  these  islands  as  is  the  Boy  Scout 
movement.  And  this  development  seems  to  me 
to  tend  more  than  any  other  to  do  away  with  class 
distinctions.  In  countries  where  universal  service 
prevails  every  man  who  serves  in  the  ranks  for 
his  country  feels  himself  the  equal  of  him  who  is 
his  comrade  in  arms.  The  handling  of  a  musket 
is  a  great  leveller  of  mankind — in  more  senses 
than  one.  See  these  manly  little  fellows  as  they 
trudge  along  the  roads — how  picturesque  they 
look,  how  businesslike  !  Contrast  them  with  the 
slouching  boys  who  are  attired  in  the  ordinary 
trousers,  shell-jacket,  and  top-hatted  garb  of  the 
public  school.  Surely  a  survival  of  the  ugliest 
costume  the  world  has  ever  invented  !  I  imagine, 
too,  that  the  spirit  of  independence  which  is  part 
of  the  training  of  the  Boy  Scout  will  be  a  factor 
of  enormous  importance  in  the  generations  which 
are  growing  into  manhood.  The  handy-man  is 
always  to  the  fore  when  it  comes  to  the  test.  How 
much  more  profitable  than  to  sit  at  a  football 
match  watching  great  big  athletes  kicking  a 
ball  when  it  is  down  !  And  the  comradeship  of 
the  Boy  Scouts  inculcates  good  fellowship  and 
good  humour — very  necessary  qualities  to  enable 
us  to  bear  the  tragedies  of  life  which  come  to  every 

24 


Our  Betters 

man  ;  and  if  we  learn  to  "  rough  it  "  on  the  road 
of  Life  with  our  fellows,  we  are  often  able  to  lighten 
a  friend  of  half  his  burden  by  counter-weighting  it 
with  sympathy.  Of  what  inestimable  value,  too, 
is  a  knowledge  of  First  Aid  !  How  useful  is  such 
knowledge  in  every  walk  of  life !  Only  the  other 
day  I  became  personally  acquainted  with  its  value. 
A  motor-car  had  run  into  a  wall,  close  to  my  home 
in  the  country  ;  the  inmate  of  the  car  was  bleed- 
ing to  death.  Had  any  of  the  three  bystanders 
known  the  rudiments  of  First  Aid,  he  would  have 
been  able  to  stanch  the  discharge  from  the  artery, 
and  so  saved  another's  life.  Let  us  not  despise 
the  handy-man. 

It  may  be  argued  that  the  Boy  Scout  move- 
ment may  have  a  tendency  to  make  the  nation 
militant  at  a  time  when  the  higher  ideals  of 
humanity  are  asserting  themselves.  Quite  so. 
But  Wisdom  may  be  found  at  either  extreme 
of  a  line — make  a  circle  of  the  line  and  the  two 
points  meet.  Universal  disarmament  is  the  ideal 
for  which  every  right-minded  person  strives.  I 
suppose  no  one  has  a  greater  horror  of  war  than 
that  great  soldier  who  has  been  calling  aloud  and 
eloquently  for  universal  service — I  mean  Lord 
Roberts.  But  we  can  only  deal  with  facts  as  we 
find  them  in  our  generation.  We  believe  that 
the  most  civilising  factor  for  mankind  is  the 
supremacy  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race — the  defence 

*5 


Our  Betters 

of  that  supremacy  is  therefore  the  business  of 
Great  Britain.  Foreign  nations  may  claim,  and 
claim  with  reason,  that  England  took  her  colonies 
by  force.  The  past  history  of  the  world  has  been 
to  take  what  one  wants  and  trust  to  one's  luck 
and  one's  power  to  keep  it.  This  is  the  peculiar 
faculty  of  the  English  people. 

I  once  heard  of  an  Englishman  who,  in  spite 
of  a  total  ignorance  of  foreign  languages,  when 
travelling  abroad  always  contrived  to  get  what 
he  wanted  by  a  very  simple  expedient.  He  had 
just  returned  from  a  visit  to  Germany.  "  How 
did  you  manage  to  get  on  ?  '  asked  a  friend. 
"  Famously,"  he  replied.  "  But  you  don't  know 
one  word  of  German,"  said  the  other.  "  I  only 
know  one  word  of  German,  and  that's  French  : 
Pardong.  Whenever  I  want  to  go  anywhere,  or 
to  obtain  anything,  I  simply  say  '  Pardong.'  No 
one  can  say  me  nay,  for  I  shouldn't  understand 
their  language.     So  I  help  myself." 

Self-help  is  the  first  law  of  possession.  If  one 
wants  anything  done  one  should  always  do  it 
oneself — it  saves  so  much  waste  of  time  in 
blaming  others  if  things  go  wrong.  Take  what 
you  want,  but  take  it  gracefully — then  apologise 
for  having  it,  but  keep  it  all  the  same,  and  then 
put  a  sentry  over  it.  This  has  answered  very 
well  in  our  colonial  policy.  But  the  reason  why 
England   has   kept   her   colonies   is   that  she   has 

26 


Our  Betters 

not  only  the  genius  of  "  give  and  take  "  ;  she  has 
the  yet  greater  genius  of  '  take  and  give  " — the 
genius  of  a  sympathetic  understanding  of  alien 
races.     Her  tyranny  is  tempered  by  humanity. 

A  general  disarmament  is  the  ideal  towards 
which  humanity  is  striving  all  over  the  world. 
But  pride  and  prejudice  and  greed  are  still  mighty 
forces,  and  it  is  only  by  the  spread  of  the  higher 
education  that  the  spiritual  development  of  man- 
kind can  be  ensured  by  the  adoption  of  Christ's 
doctrines,  which,  alas  !  go  to  the  wall  in  all  Christian 
countries  at  the  bidding  of  expediency.  Blood  is 
thicker  than  water,  but  gold  is  thicker  than  blood. 
As  Shakespeare  is  the  most  modern  of  writers,  so 
is  Christ  the  most  modern  of  Reformers ;  indeed, 
He  is  a  little  in  advance  of  our  time;  His  prin- 
ciples are  still  taboo,  and  if  uttered  by  a  modern 
statesman  would  be  denounced  as  "  bad  form." 
Is  not  every  reformer  regarded  as  "  no  gentleman  " 
until  his  propaganda  has  become  the  law  of 
the  land  ? 

I  knew  a  multi-millionaire  who,  having  been 
baptised  late  in  life,  forsook  Christianity.  We  had 
been  having  a  somewhat  heated  discussion  on 
social  questions.  We  were  in  a  picture  gallery, 
and  suddenly  stood  before  a  great  picture  of 
Christ.  "  Socialist !  '  the  multi-millionaire  cried 
as  he  left  the  building. 

27 


Our  Betters 

But  to  whatever  shade  of  political  opinion  we 
may  belong,  we  must  all  recognise  the  terrible 
danger  which  lurks  in  the  transference  of  power 
from  Kings  to  the  People,  for  if  the  tyranny  of 
Kings  and  Priests  be  undesirable,  the  tyranny  of 
the  half-educated  mob  is  yet  more  terrible.  Beware 
of  the  tyranny  of  the  great,  but  beware  far  more 
of  the  chaos  of  ignorance.  We  are  in  a  period  of 
transition,  and  out  of  the  very  danger  of  giving 
power  to  the  people  may  arise  the  universal  peace. 
As  Science  is  teaching  us  the  use  of  the  newly 
discovered  forces  of  electricity  and  radium,  which, 
ignorantly  used,  are  infernal  agents  of  destruction, 
so  may  the  right  use  of  democratic  power  be  the 
most  splendid  agency  for  good  when  the  peoples 
shall  have  been  instructed  in  its  right  use.  Thus 
enlightened,  the  people  may  draw  closer  the  bonds 
of  the  Brotherhood  of  Man  ;  and,  guided  by  the 
new  light  and  restrained  by  the  higher  education, 
is  it  not  possible  that  the  workmen  of  the  world 
will  join  in  a  bloodless  revolution  and  cry,  "  We 
will  have  no  more  wars  "  ? 

War  is  not  the  only  business  of  man.  There 
are  other  heroisms  than  those  of  the  sword  and 
the  submarine.  Who  has  not — if  he  have  an 
imagination  to  understand  and  a  heart  to  feel 
— who  has  not  shuddered  in  reading  of  the 
terrors  of  this  latest  war  in  the  East  ?  Who  has 
not  been  filled  with  noble  hatred  of  the  wiles  of 

28 


Our  Betters 

politicians,  of  the  cupidity  of  potentates,  and  of 
the  stupidity  of  peoples  ?  In  contemplating  from 
afar  the  terrible  sufferings  entailed  by  a  single 
campaign,  whose  gorge  has  not  risen  with  indigna- 
tion at  the  brutalities,  the  tortures,  the  agonies, 
the  rapine  of  which  our  brothers  and  sisters  are 
the  victims,  on  those  blood-soaked,  pestilential 
plains  ? 

We  often  hear  it  said  that  war  is  a  necessary 
evil,  that  war  keeps  the  race  strong,  that  war 
will  not  cease  while  human  nature  lasts.  But  is 
this  so  ?  What  about  the  Jews,  who  are  perhaps 
the  most  dominant  race  in  the  world  to-day  ? 
Have  they  needed  wars  to  keep  them  strong  ? 
Have  their  domestic  virtues  needed  the  stimulus 
of  bloodshed  ?  Have  their  acquisitive  vices 
needed  it  ?  Has  the  flower  of  the  Jewish  race 
been  destroyed  on  the  battlefield  ?  The  Jews  have 
devoted  themselves  for  many  centuries  to  com- 
merce and  to  the  arts  of  peace.  Certainly  we 
artists  have  reason  to  be  grateful  to  the  Jews ; 
for  I  dread  to  think  what  would  become  of  the 
art  of  this  country  were  it  not  for  the  encourage- 
ment and  support  it  receives  at  the  hands  of 
the  Jewish  community. 

We  have  looked  upon  the  wonderful  strides 
which  Science  has  made  in  the  past  fifty  years — 
it  may  be  that  in  the  next  half-century  mankind 
will   see   a  revolution   which   shall   bring   another 

29 


Our  Betters 

happiness,  the  happiness  which  is  derived  from 
the  exercise  of  the  most  humanising  of  all  the 
influences — I  mean  that  which  is  bestowed  by 
Art. 

Is  it  not  possible  that  the  gentle  tapping  at 
the  earth's  crust  may  find  an  echo  in  the  hearts 
of  the  peoples  of  the  earth,  who  will  arise  in  the 
might  of  a  new-born  religion  and  will  knock  at 
the  gates  of  the  world's  conscience,  singing  in 
unison  the  hymn  of  humanity,  and  crying,  "  Thou 
shalt  do  no  murder — even  for  the  divine  right  of 
kings  "  ;  when  frontiers  shall  be  swept  away  and 
there  shall  be  one  brotherhood  of  man,  one  flag, 
one  language,  and  one  religion,  the  religion  of 
Humanity  ;  when  the  people  shall  be  generalled 
by  the  dreamers,  the  poets,  the  philosophers, 
the  seers  and  singers,  the  artists  of  the  world  ? 
It  is  men  like  Christ,  Sophocles,  Dante,  Shake- 
speare, Cervantes,  and  Goethe  rather  than 
the  heroic  slaughterers  of  history  who  have 
the  abiding  influence  in  the  advancement  of 
mankind. 

The  sum  of  a  man's  greatness  should  be  meas- 
ured, not  by  his  destructive  activity,  but  by  the 
constructive  good  he  does  for  the  world.  What  is 
his  output  of  good  ?  That  is  the  question.  What 
is  the  sum  of  Napoleon's  achievement  ?  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  his  most  useful  contribution 
to  the  happiness  of  mankind  was  the  constitution 

30 


Our  Betters 

he  gave  to  the  Comedie  Francaisc  in  the  Code 
Napoleon. 

Has  not  the  highest  morality  been  defined  as 
that  which  will  bring  the  greatest  happiness  to 
the  greatest  number  ?  And  happiness  depends 
not  on  wealth,  not  on  environing  luxuries  ;  it  is 
rather  a  condition  of  mind  ;  it  is  the  power  to 
enjoy.  This  gift  is  bestowed  on  one  and  the  same 
person  with  an  almost  equal  proportion  as  is  the 
power  to  suffer.  One  child  will  be  happy  with 
a  rag  doll  ;  another  will  be  dissatisfied  with 
the  most  perfect  mechanical  toy — because  it  does 
not  have  a  real  stomach-ache  when  it  is  pinched. 
Contentment  is  the  state  of  being  that  we  should 
cultivate,  for  it  is  cultivatable  ;  it  is  irrigable  with 
the  aid  of  humour.  It  is  a  habit  of  mind  which  is 
due  largely  no  doubt  to  a  blessed  heredity,  but 
is  also  capable  of  being  acquired  by  training  and 
by  careful  fostering. 

Happiness  does  not  depend  on  possessions. 
Imagination  can  do  much.  It  is,  of  course,  fine 
to  have  good  things  to  eat  and  drink  ;  but  I  had 
for  friend  a  gentle  philosopher  who  told  me  that 
when  he  was  poor  he  was  content  with  a  piece  of 
bread  and  cheese  and  a  glass  of  beer  for  dinner, 
during  which  he  would  revel  in  the  imaginative 
delights  of  a  cookery  book  !  The  rich  man  has 
not  a  monopoly  of  happiness.  "  Poor  and  content 
is  rich  and  rich  enough  ;    but  riches  fineless  is  as 

3* 


Our  Betters 

poor  as  winter  to  him  that  ever  fears  he  shall  be 
poor." 

Goethe  beautifully  sums  up  this  philosophy  in 
his  poem  of  "  The  Eagle  and  the  Dove."  An  eagle 
is  wounded,  and  with  his  broken  wing  he  drags 
along  a  miserable  existence  by  the  side  of  a  brook, 
on  the  other  side  of  which  is  a  dove,  who  in  perfect 
safety  exchanges  views  on  life  with  her  carnivor- 
ous vis-a-vis.  The  eagle  complains  of  his  lot.  To 
this  the  dove  replies  : 

"  '  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  friend  ! 
All  that  is  needed  for  calm  happiness 
Hast  thou  not  here  ? 

Hast  thou  not  pleasure  in  the  golden  bough 
That  shields  thee  from  the  day's  fierce  glow  ? 
Canst  thou  not  raise  thy  breast  to  catch, 
On  the  soft  moss  beside  the  brook, 
The  sun's  last  rays  at  even  ? 
Here  thou  mayst  wander  through  the  flowers'  fresh 

dew, 
Pluck  from  the  forest-trees 
The  choicest  food — mayst  quench 
Thy  light  thirst  at  the  silvery  spring— 
Oh,  friend,  true  happiness 
Lies  in  content, 
And  sweet  content 
Finds  everywhere  enough.' 
'  Oh,  wise  one  ! '  said  the  eagle,  while  he  sank 
In  deep  and  ever  deep'ning  thought — 
*  Oh  1  wisdom  !  thou  speakest  like  a  dove.'  " 

I  have  no  doubt  that  everything  I  have  said 

32 


Our  Betters 

has  been  better  said  by  someone  else.  One  of 
the  very  few  authors  with  whom  I  have  a  skip- 
ping acquaintance  is  Emerson.  In  one  of  his  essays 
occurs  the  following  passage  : 

"  I  know  that  for  myself  it  makes  no  difference 
whether  I  do  or  forbear  those  actions  which  are  reckoned 
excellent.  I  cannot  consent  to  pay  for  a  privilege 
where  I  have  intrinsic  right.  Few  and  mean  as  my 
gifts  may  be,  I  actually  am,  and  do  not  need  for  my 
assurance  or  the  assurance  of  my  fellows  any  secondary 
testimony.  What  must  I  do  is  all  that  concerns  me, 
not  what  the  people  think.  This  rule,  equally  arduous 
in  actual  and  in  intellectual  life,  may  serve  for  the  whole 
distinction  between  greatness  and  meanness.  It  is  the 
harder,  because  you  will  always  find  those  who  think 
they  know  what  is  your  duty  better  than  you  know  it. 
It  is  easy  in  the  world  to  live  after  the  world's  opinion  ; 
it  is  easy  in  solitude  to  live  after  your  own  ;  but  the 
great  man  is  he  who  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  keeps 
with  perfect  sweetness  the  independence  of  solitude." 

That  indeed  is  a  great  capacity — to  keep  the 
aloofness  of  one's  soul  through  all  the  sordid- 
ness  of  life,  amid  the  hustle  and  bustle,  the  bang 
and  clang,  the  game  and  the  fame,  the  jobbery 
and  snobbery,  of  everyday  existence  ;  to  retain, 
in  fact,  the  mind  of  a  child,  and  so  keep  the 
illusions  of  fairyland,  even  after  our  fairyland  has 
faded  as  a  mirage  of  childhood. 

Yes  ;  to  keep  one's  illusions,  to  keep  with 
perfect  sweetness  the  independence  of  solitude, 
d  33 


Our  Betters 

that  is  a  great  achievement ;  for  our  respect  for 
others  is  in  proportion  to  our  respect  for  our- 
selves— and  to  be  true  to  himself,  that  is  man's 
best  endeavour ;  for,  as  Shakespeare  says  (and 
he  says  everything  that  can  be  said  on  any  con- 
ceivable subject  better  than  any  other  could  say 
it),  '  To  thine  own  self  be  true,  and  it  must 
follow,  as  the  night  the  day,  thou  canst  not  then 
be  false  to  any  man." 


AFTERTHOUGHT 

If  in  the  foregoing  excursions  I  have  given 
utterance  to  an  occasional  truth,  as  the  blind  hen 
picks  up  a  corn,  I  can  only  plead  that  they  were 
written  when  wandering  alone  under  the  pine-trees, 
pondering  some  problems  of  life ;  and  the  scent  of 
the  pine-trees  had  got  into  my  brain.  I  listened 
to  what  they  said,  and  took  it  down  in  shorthand. 
And  the  message  that  their  boughs  whispered  to 
me  was  this: 

The  best  thing  a  man  can  do  is  to  be  himself, 
in  spite  of  all  inconveniences;  and  in  his  little 
walk  through  life  to  tell  the  truth  according  to 
himself;    to   be   afraid    of  no    man    but   himself; 

34 


Our  Betters 

to  respect  the  laws  but  not  to  cringe  to  them;  to 
be  himself  in  spite  of  the  opinion  of  the  multi- 
tude, and  to  acknowledge  no  higher  Court  of 
Appeal  than  that  of  his  own  conscience ;  for  he 
who  can  look  unflinchingly  in  the  mirror  of  his 
soul  laughs  when  his  effigy  is  burnt  in  the  market 
place. 

"  Is  that  so?"  I  asked. 

And  the  pine-trees  murmured,  "  Yes,  our  only 
Betters  are  Ourselves." 


THE    LIVING    SHAKESPEARE 

A    DEFENCE    OF    MODERN    TASTE 


>6710 


THE     LIVING     SHAKESPEARE 


/VBUSE  of  the  public  is  the   last  ditch  of   the 

•^  disappointed. 


"  Sir,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  "  I  have  not  even 
mentioned  '  little  Davy '  in  the  preface  to  my 
Shakespeare." 

"  Why  ?  "  ventured  Boswell.  "  Do  you  not 
admire  that  great  actor  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Doctor,  "  as  a  poor  player 
who  frets  and  struts  his  hour  upon  the  stage — as 
a  shadow." 

"  But,"  persisted  Boswell,  "  has  he  not  brought 
Shakespeare  into  notice  ?  " 

At  this  the  immortal  lexicographer  fired  up. 
"  Sir,  to  allow  that  would  be  to  lampoon  the  age. 

39 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

Many  of  Shakespeare's  plays  are  the  worse  for 
being  aetcd." 

Then  Boswcll,  Scotsman  that  he  was,  once 
more  replied  with  a  question  :  "  What !  is  nothing 
gained  by  acting  and  decoration  ?  " 

"  Sir  !  "  replied  Dr.  Johnson,  breathing  hard  ; 
"  Sir !  "  he  thundered,  as  he  brought  down  his 
fist  with  all  the  energy  of  his  rotund  and  volcanic 
personality  ;  "  Sir  !  " — and  for  once  there  was  a 
silence — the  only  silence  that  is  recorded  in  the 
life  of  that  great  positivist. 

In  that  brief  conversation  is  raised  the  chief 
question  which  has  divided  lovers  of  Shakespeare 
for  three  centuries  past.  Ought  his  works  to  be 
presented  upon  the  stage  at  all  ? 

Strange  as  it  may  seem  in  an  actor,  I  am  bound 
to  say  that  I  can  understand  this  attitude  of  mind, 
which  was  shared  by  many  thinkers  of  past  ages. 
I  am  not  astonished  even  that  such  acute  and 
genial  critics  as  Charles  Lamb  and  Wordsworth, 
that  such  serious  lovers  of  Shakespeare  as  Hazlitt 
and  Emerson,  held  the  opinion  that  the  works  of 
our  greatest  dramatist  should  not  be  seen  upon  the 
stage.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  not  my  intention 
to  enter  into  an  academic  discussion  with  these 
departed  spirits.  Rather  will  it  be  my  practical 
endeavour  to  show  that  the  public  of  to-day 
demands  that,  if  acted  at  all,   Shakespeare  shall 

40 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

be  presented  with  all  the  resources  of  the  theatre 
of  our  time — that  he  shall  be  treated,  not  as  a 
dead  author  speaking  a  dead  language,  but  as 
a  living  force  speaking  with  the  voice  of  a  living 
humanity.  And  it  will  be  my  further  endeavour 
to  show  that  in  making  this  demand  the  public  is 
right. 

I  am  quite  aware  that  in  this  assertion  I  am 
opposed  by  those  who  regard  Shakespeare  as  a 
mere  literary  legacy,  and  themselves  as  his  exe- 
cutors, for  whose  special  behest  his  bones  are 
periodically  exhumed  in  order  to  gratify  a  pretty 
taste  for  literary  pedantry.  But  great  poetry  is 
not  written  for  the  Few,  elected  of  themselves  ; 
it  must  be  a  living  force,  or  it  must  be  respect- 
fully relegated  to  the  dingy  shelves  of  the  great 
unheard — the  little  read. 

Is  Shakespeare  living,  or  is  he  dead  ?  That  is 
the  question.     Is  he  to  be,  or  not  to  be  ? 

If  he  is  to  be,  his  being  must  be  of  our  time — 
that  is  to  say,  we  must  look  at  him  with  the  eyes 
and  we  must  listen  to  him  with  the  ears  of  our 
own  generation.  And  it  is  surely  the  greatest 
tribute  to  his  genius  that  we  should  claim  his 
work  as  belonging  no  less  to  our  time  than  to 
his  own  ! 

There  are  those  who  contend  that,  if  Shake- 
speare   be    fit    to    play   to    our   age,    in    order    to 

4i 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

appreciate  his  works  they  must  only  be  decked  out 
with  the  threadbare  wardrobe  of  a  bygone  time. 
Let  us  treat  these  antiquarians  with  the  respect 
due  to  another  age,  but  do  not  let  us  be  deluded 
by  a  too  diligent  study  of  magazine  articles  into 
the  belief  that  we  must  regard  these  great  plays 
as  interesting  specimens  for  the  special  delectation 
of  epicures  in  antiques. 

We  have,  then,  in  fact,  two  contending  forces 
of  opinion  :  on  the  one  side  we  have  the  literary 
experts,  as  revealed  in  print ;  on  the  other  we 
have  public  opinion,  as  revealed  by  the  coin  of 
the  realm. 

Before  I  enter  upon  my  justification  of  the 
public  taste,  I  shall  have  to  show  what  the  public 
taste  is.  Now,  there  is  only  one  way  of  arriving 
at  an  estimate  of  the  public  taste  in  "  things 
theatric,"  and  that  is  through  the  practical  experi- 
ence of  those  whose  business  it  is  to  cater  for  the 
public.  The  few  experts  who  arrogate  to  them- 
selves the  right  to  dictate  what  the  public  taste 
should  be  are  exactly  those  who  ignore  what  it 
really  is.  To  their  more  alluring  speculations  I 
shall  turn  later  on ;  and  if,  in  passing  over 
the  ground  which  has  been  trodden  by  these 
erudite  but  uninformed  writers,  I  have  now 
and  then  to  sweep  aside  the  cobwebs  woven 
of  their  fancy,  I  shall  hope  to  do  so  with  a 
light   hand,    serene   in   the   assurance   that   good 

42 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

and  strenuous  work  will  survive  the  condemnation 
of  a  footnote. 

Much  has  been  written  of  late  as  to  the  manner 
in  which  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  should  be  pre- 
sented. We  are  told  in  this  connection  that  the 
ideal  note  to  strike  is  that  of  "  Adequacy."  We 
are  assured  that  we  are  not  to  apply  to  Shake- 
spearian productions  the  same  care,  the  same 
reverence  for  accuracy,  the  same  regard  for  stage 
illusion,  for  mounting,  scenery,  and  costume, 
which  we  devote  to  authors  of  lesser  degree  ;  that 
we  should  not,  in  fact,  avail  ourselves  of  those 
adjuncts  which  in  these  days  science  and  art  place 
at  the  manager's  right  hand  ;  in  other  words,  that 
we  are  to  produce  our  national  poet's  works  with- 
out the  crowds  and  armies,  without  the  pride, 
pomp,  and  circumstance  which  are  suggested  in 
every  page  of  the  dramatist's  work,  and  the  absence 
of  which  Shakespeare  himself  so  frequently  laments 
in  his  plays.  On  this  subject — rightly  or  wrongly 
— (but  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  prove  to  you 
rightly)  the  public  has  spoken  with  no  hesitating 
voice ;  the  trend  of  its  taste  has  undoubtedly 
been  towards  putting  Shakespeare  upon  the  stage 
as  worthily  and  as  munificently  as  the  manager 
can  afford. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  ascertain  how  many 
English  playgoers  have  encouraged  this  method 
of  producing  Shakespeare  since  Sir  Squire  Bancroft 

43 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

gave  us  The  Merchant  of  Venice  at  the  old 
Prince  of  Wales'  Theatre,  which  is  my  earliest 
theatrical  recollection  of  the  kind  ;  and  I  do  not 
remember  since  to  have  seen  any  Shakespearian 
presentation  more  satisfying  to  my  judgment.  It 
was  here  that  Ellen  Terry  first  shed  the  sunlight 
of  her  buoyant  and  radiant  personality  on  the 
character  of  Portia  ;  it  was  the  first  production  in 
which  the  modern  spirit  of  stage-management 
asserted  itself,  transporting  us  as  it  did  into  the 
atmosphere  of  Venice,  into  the  rarefied  realms  of 
Shakespearian  comedy.  Since  then,  no  doubt, 
millions  have  flocked  to  this  class  of  production, 
as  we  realise  when  we  recall  Sir  Henry  Irving's 
beautiful  Shakespearian  presentations  from  1874 
to  1896 ;  presentations  which  included  Hamlet, 
Macbeth,  Othello,  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  King 
Lear,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  The  Merchant  of  Venice, 
Henry  VIII.,  Richard  III.,  and  Cymbeline  ;  and 
when  we  remember  Miss  Mary  Anderson's  memor- 
able production  of  A  Winter's  Tale  at  the  same 
theatre,  where  the  Leontes  was  Mr.  Forbes  Robert- 
son, another  actor  of  the  modern  school  (that  old 
school  which  is  eternally  new — I  might  say  the  right 
school),  not  to  mention  Mr.  John  Hare's  As  You 
Like  It,  Mr.  Wilson  Barrett's  Hamlet  and  Othello, 
and  Mr.  George  Alexander's  As  You  Like  It  and 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing.  Again,  at  the  Hay- 
market,   under  a  recent  management,   one  might 

44 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

have  seen  produced  in  this  same  culpable  fashion 
Hamlet,  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  and 
Henry  IV. 

Now,  I  am  not  in  a  position,  by  means  of  the 
brutal  but  unanswerable  logic  of  figures,  to  speak 
of  the  success  which  attended  the  various  pro- 
ductions of  my  brother  managers :  nor  shall 
I  seek  to  set  up  commercial  success  as  the 
standard  by  which  artistic  endeavour  must  be 
gauged.  But  I  do  know  that,  by  the  public 
favour,  many  of  the  managers  whom  I  have  men- 
tioned succeeded  in  keeping  in  the  bills  for  a 
number  of  months  their  great  Shakespearian  pro- 
ductions, and  I  believe  that  in  the  aggregate  these 
brought  them  ample  and  substantial  reward. 
That  we  should  look  for  that  sluttishness  of  pros- 
perity which  attends  entertainments  of  another 
order  is,  of  course,  out  of  the  question  ;  but  the 
privilege  of  presenting  the  masterpieces  of  Shake- 
speare's genius  is  surely  as  great  as  that  derived 
from  paying  a  dividend  of  35  per  cent,  to  a  set  of 
shareholders  in  a  limited  liability  company.  But 
if  I  am  unable  to  speak  with  authority  as  to  the 
success  or  otherwise  which  has  attended  the  pro- 
ductions at  other  theatres,  I  can  speak  with 
authority  in  reference  to  those  productions  for 
which  I  myself  have  been  responsible — if,  indeed, 
it  be  permissible  to  call  oneself  as  a  witness  to 
prove  one's  own  case.     For  the  moment  modesty 

45 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

must  give  way  to  the  exigencies  of  the  situation — 
as  modesty  frequently  must. 

In  three  years  at  Her  Majesty's  Theatre  three 
Shakespearian  productions  have  been  given — 
Julius  Ccesar,  King  John,  and  A  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream ;  and  much,  no  doubt,  as  it  will 
shock  some  people,  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that 
for  these  productions  I  have  tried  to  borrow  from 
the  arts  and  the  sciences  all  that  the  arts  and  the 
sciences  had  to  lend.  And  what  has  been  the 
result  ?  In  London  alone  two  hundred  and  forty- 
two  thousand  people  witnessed  Julius  Ccesar,  over 
one  hundred  and  seventy  thousand  came  to  see 
King  John,  and  nearly  two  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  were  present  during  the  run  of  A  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream — in  all  a  grand  total  of 
six  hundred  and  thirty-two  thousand  visitors  to 
these  three  productions.  And  no  doubt  my  brother 
managers  who  have  catered  for  the  public  in  this 
manner  could,  with  the  great  successes  that  they 
have  had,  point  to  similar  figures.  I  think,  there- 
fore, it  is  not  too  much  to  claim  that  the  public 
taste  clearly  and  undoubtedly — whether  that  taste 
be  good  or  bad — lies  in  the  direction  of  the  method 
in  which  Shakespeare  has  been  presented  of  late 
years  by  the  chief  metropolitan  managers.  It  is 
for  me  to  prove  that  that  taste  is  justified,  and 
that  the  great  mass  of  English  theatre-goers  are 
not  to  be  stamped  as  fools  and  ignorants  because 

46 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

they   have   shown  a  decided  preference  for  con- 
temporary methods. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  show  what  the  public 
taste  of  to-day  is.  Before  entering  upon  its 
defence,  I  shall  put  before  you  the  case  for  the 
prosecution.  Many  able  pens  have  been  busy  of 
late,  and  much  valuable  ink  has  been  spilt  in 
assuring  us  that  the  modern  method  is  a  wrong 
method,  and  that  Shakespeare  can  only  be  rescued 
from  the  sloth  into  which  he  has  fallen  by  a  return 
to  that  primitive  treatment  which  may  be  indi- 
cated in  such  stage  instructions  as  "  This  is  a 
forest,"  "This  is  a  wall,"  "This  is  a  youth," 
"  This  is  a  maiden,"  "  This  is  a  moon." 

The  first  count  in  the  indictment,  according  to 
one  distinguished  writer,  is  that  it  is  the  modern 
manager's  '  avowed  intention  to  appeal  to  the 
spectator  mainly  through  the  eye."  If  that  be  so, 
then  the  manager  is  clearly  at  fault — but  I  am 
unacquainted  with  that  manager.  We  are  told 
that  the  manager  nowadays  will  only  produce 
those  plays  of  Shakespeare  which  lend  themselves 
to  "  ostentatious  spectacle."  If  that  be  so,  then 
the  manager  is  clearly  at  fault — but  I  am  still 
unacquainted  with  him.  Wc  are  assured  on  the 
authority  of  this  same  writer,  who  I  am  sure  would 
be  incapable  of  deliberately  arguing  from  false 
premisses,  that  "  in  the  most  influential  circles  of 

47 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

the  theatrical  profession  it  has  become  a  common- 
place to  assert  that  Shakespearian  drama  cannot 
be  successfully  produced  on  the  stage — cannot  be 
rendered  tolerable  to  any  large  section  of  the 
play-going  public — without  a  plethora  of  scenic 
spectacle  and  gorgeous  costumes  which  the  student 
regards  as  superfluous  and  inappropriate."  If  it 
be  so,  the  unknown  manager  is  once  more  at  fault. 
We  may,  indeed,  take  him  to  be  a  vulgar  rogue  who 
produces  Shakespeare  for  the  sole  purpose  of  gain, 
and  who  does  not  hesitate  to  debauch  the  public 
taste  in  order  to  compass  his  sordid  ends. 

We  are  told  that  under  the  present  system  it 
is  no  longer  possible  for  Shakespeare's  plays  to  be 
acted  constantly  and  in  their  variety  owing  to 
the  large  sums  of  money  which  have  to  be  expended, 
thus  necessitating  long  runs.  Of  course,  if  a  large 
number  of  Shakespeare's  plays  could  follow  each 
other  without  intermission,  a  very  desirable  state 
of  things  would  be  attained  ;  but  my  contention 
is  that  no  company  of  ordinary  dimensions  could 
possibly  achieve  this,  either  worthily  or  even 
satisfactorily.  Leaving  out  of  consideration  for 
the  moment  all  such  questions  as  rehearsals  of 
scenery  and  effects,  it  is  impossible  for  one  set 
of  actors  properly  to  prepare  one  play  in  the  space 
of  a  few  days  while  they  are  playing  another  at 
night.  Those  who  have  had  any  experience  of 
rehearsing  a  Shakespearian  drama  in  a  serious  way 

48 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

will  bear  me  out  that  a  week  or  a  fortnight,  or 
even  a  month,  is  insufficient  to  do  the  text  any- 
thing like  full  justice.  And  even  when  attempts 
of  this  kind  have  been  made,  can  it  honestly  be 
said  that  they  have  left  any  lasting  impression 
upon  the  mind  or  the  fancy  ?  I  contend  that 
greater  service  for  the  true  knowing  of  Shake- 
speare's works  is  rendered  by  the  careful  pro- 
duction of  one  of  these  plays  than  by  the  indifferent 
— or,  as  I  believe  it  is  now  fashionably  called,  the 
"  adequate  " — representation  of  half  a  dozen  of 
them.  By  deeply  impressing  an  audience,  and 
making  their  hearts  throb  to  the  beat  of  the  poet's 
wand,  by  bringing  out  through  representation  the 
full  meaning  of  his  works,  by  enthralling  an 
audience  by  the  magic  of  the  actor  who  has  the 
compelling  power,  we  are  enabled  to  give  Shake* 
speare  a  wider  appeal  and  a  larger  franchise— 
surely  no  mean  achievement !  Thousands  witness 
him  instead  of  hundreds  ;  for  his  works  are  not 
onty,  or  primarily,  for  the  literary  student :  they 
are  for  the  world  at  large.  Indeed,  there  should 
be  more  joy  over  ninety-nine  Philistines  that  are 
gained  than  over  one  elect  that  is  preserved.  I 
contend  that  not  only  is  no  service  rendered  to 
Shakespeare  by  an  "  adequate "  representation, 
but  that  such  performances  are  a  disservice,  in  so 
far  that  a  large  proportion  of  the  audience  will 
receive  from  such  representations  an  impression  of 
e  49 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

dullness.  And  in  all  modesty  it  may  be  claimed 
that  it  is  better  to  draw  multitudes  by  doing 
Shakespeare  in  the  way  the  public  prefers  than 
to  keep  the  theatre  empty  by  only  presenting  him 
"  adequately,"  as  these  counsels  of  imperfection 
would  have  us  do. 

Our  detractors  miss  two  basic  points.  There 
is  no  proof  that  Shakespeare  did  not  run  a 
new  play  as  long  as  it  held  the  town — everything 
points  to  the  contrary.  And  if  Shakespeare  "  ade- 
quate "  appealed  to  the  public  more  than  Shake- 
speare splendid,  we  who  produce  him  would  find  it 
to  our  immense  advantage  and  profit  so  to  do. 

I  take  it  that  the  proper  function  of  putting 
Shakespeare  upon  the  stage  is  not  only  to  provide 
an  evening's  amusement  at  the  theatre,  but  also 
to  give  a  stimulus  to  the  further  study  of  our 
great  poet's  works.  If  performances,  therefore, 
make  but  a  fleeting  impression  during  the  moments 
that  they  are  in  action,  and  are  forgotten  as  soon 
as  the  playhouse  is  quitted,  the  stimulus  for  diving 
deeper  into  other  plays  than  those  that  we  have 
witnessed  must  inevitably  be  wanting.  For  my 
own  part,  I  admit  that  the  long  run  has  its  dis- 
advantages— that  it  tends  (unless  fought  against) 
to  automatic  acting  and  to  a  lessening  of  enthu- 
siasm, passion,  and  imagination  on  the  part  of 
the  actor  ;  but  what  system  is  perfect  ?  It  is  a 
regrettable  fact  that  in  all  the  affairs  of  life,  when- 

50 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

ever  we  strive  for  an  abstract  condition  of  things, 
we  are  apt  to  come  into  collision  with  the  concrete 
wall  which  is  built  of  human  limitations — as  many 
an  idealist's  battered  head  will  testify.  In  making 
a  choice,  one  can  only  elect  that  system  which  has 
the  smallest  number  of  drawbacks  to  its  account. 

The  argument  that  the  liabilities  involved 
nowadays  in  producing  a  Shakespearian  play  on 
the  modern  system  are  so  heavy  that  few  managers 
care  to  face  them,  and  that  therefore,  unless  a 
change  in  such  system  take  place,  Shakespeare 
will  be  banished  from  the  London  stage  altogether 
— is  in  my  opinion  a  fallacious  one.  Again  I 
apologise  for  intruding  the  results  of  my  own 
experience,  but  I  feel  bound  to  state — if  only  for 
the  purpose  of  encouraging  others  to  put  Shake- 
speare on  the  stage  as  bountifully  as  they  can 
afford — that  no  single  one  of  my  Shakespearian 
productions  has  been  unattended  by  a  substantial 
pecuniary  reward. 

I  now  come  to  deal  with  two  charges  which 
practically  come  under  one  head — the  impeach- 
ment of  the  actor-manager.  He  is  represented  as 
being  capable  of  every  enormity,  of  every  shame- 
less infraction  of  every  rule  of  dramatic  art,  pro- 
vided only  that  he  stands  out  from  his  fellows 
and  obtains  the  giant  share  of  notice  and  applause. 
These   two   charges   are :     first,    that   the   text   is 

5i 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

ruthlessly  cut  in  order  to  give  an  unwarranted 
predominance  to  certain  parts ;  and  secondly, 
that  the  parts  are  not  entrusted  to  actors  capable 
of  doing  them  justice.  If  these  charges  be  true, 
the  practice  is  a  most  reprehensible  one.  But  are 
they  true  ?  Is  it  not  rather  the  fact  that  the  old 
star  system  has  of  late  given  way  to  all-round  casts 
of  a  high  level  ?  I  think  the  public  taste  and  the 
practice  of  managers  has  been  in  this  direction — 
a  welcome  change  which  has  taken  place  during 
recent  years.  In  regard  to  this  cutting  of  the 
text,  it  is  only  fair  to  point  out  that  the  process 
to  an  extent  is  necessary  in  the  present  day.  It 
would  be  impossible  otherwise  to  bring  most  of 
Shakespeare's  plays  within  the  three-hours'  limit 
which  he  himself  has  described  as  the  proper 
traffic  of  the  stage.  In  times  gone  by  when  there 
was  practically  no  scenery  at  all,  when  the  public 
were  satisfied  to  come  to  the  playhouse  and  remain 
in  their  seats  without  moving  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end  of  the  performance  (taking  solid  and 
liquid  refreshment  when  it  pleased  them),  a  much 
lengthier  play  was  possible  than  in  these  days  ; 
but  to  perform  any  single  one  of  Shakespeare's 
plays  without  excision  at  all  would  be  to  court 
failure  instead  of  success.  To  play,  for  example, 
the  whole  of  Hamlet  or  Antony  and  Cleopatra — the 
two  longest  of  Shakespeare's  works — without  a 
cut  would  mean  a  stay  of  about  five  hours  in  the 

52 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

theatre.  This  would  never  be  tolerated  in  these 
days,  and  the  result  of  such  a  practice  would  be 
to  empty  the  theatre  instead  of  to  fill  it.  Modern 
conditions  of  life  obviously  do  not  admit  of  such 
a  system.  Dinner  is  so  necessary — nowadays  ! 
Moreover,  Shakespeare  himself  did  not  represent 
the  entire  play  of  Hamlet,  which  was  subjected  to 
judicious  cuts  in  his  own  time — and  there  is 
nothing  to  show  that  his  dramas  were  ever  per- 
formed in  their  printed  entirety.  Take,  for  example, 
Antony  and  Cleopatra.  We  have  no  evidence  that 
it  was  ever  played  in  Shakespeare's  own  time ;  but, 
if  it  were,  the  loose  construction  of  Act  III.,  involv- 
ing as  it  does  the  necessity  of  no  fewer  than  eleven 
changes  of  scene,  could  hardly  have  fulfilled  the 
ideal  dramatic  requirements  even  of  those  days. 

Now  as  to  the  constitution  of  the  Shakespearian 
casts  of  the  present  day,  it  is  asserted  that  the 
parts  are  not  entrusted  to  the  right  exponents. 
With  all  respect,  I  submit  that  the  public  has  the 
right  to  choose  its  own  favourites,  and  surely  the 
manager  has  the  right  to  select  his  own  company 
from  the  ranks  of  these  favourites,  rather  than 
from  the  ranks  of  those  whose  practice,  however 
useful,  has  been  limited  to  the  range  of  Shake- 
spearian drama,  and  who  have  not  yet  gained  their 
spurs  in  the  wider  field  of  our  arduous  calling  ; 
for  the  more  varied  his  experience,  the  better 
equipped  is  the  actor  for  the  presentation  of  the 

53 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

essentially  human  characters  of  Shakespeare.  If 
we  follow  the  argument  to  the  end,  we  are  led  to 
the  conclusion  that  it  is  more  satisfying  to  see 
the  young  lady  who  has  but  three  years  been 
emancipated  from  the  high  school,  playing  Ophelia 
and  Lady  Macbeth,  Beatrice,  Viola  and  Rosalind, 
than  Miss  Ellen  Terry,  Miss  Mary  Anderson,  Miss 
Julia  Neilson,  and  other  actresses  of  their  proved 
talents  and  experience.  I  venture  to  think  that 
the  public  is  once  more  right.  What  is  this 
clamour  about  the  modern  cast  ?  Not  to  cite 
more  modern  instances,  let  us  take  the  cast  of 
Henry  VIII.  at  the  Lyceum.  Henry  Irving  as 
Wolsey,  William  Terriss  as  the  King,  Arthur 
Stirling  as  Cranmer,  Forbes  Robertson  as  Bucking- 
ham, Alfred  Bishop  as  the  Chamberlain,  Ellen 
Terry  as  Queen  Katharine,  Mrs.  Arthur  Bourchier 
as  Anne  Boleyn,  and  Miss  Le  Thiere  as  the  Old 
Dame.     How  should  we  better  this  ? 

That  the  chief  parts  in  most  Shakespearian 
productions  are  given  to  star  artists  is  not  only 
the  fault  of  the  manager — the  chief  culprit  was 
himself  an  author-actor-manager.  He  wrote  great 
parts,  and  great  parts  require  great  actors.  Shake- 
speare and  Adequacy !  What  a  combination ! 
Adequacy  !  The  word  seems  to  me  almost  blas- 
phemous in  such  a  connection.  For  all  the  ills 
to  which  dramatic  flesh  is  heir  the  actor-manager 
is  held  responsible  :  he  is  the  evil  genius  of  the 

54 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

theatre ;  a  make-up  of  vanity,  ignorance,  and 
despotism  ;  a  kind  of  Bottom  the  Weaver  without 
his  wit.  I  can  picture  him,  having  condescended 
to  give  up  an  hour  or  two  of  his  leisured  life  to  the 
careless  pastime  of  a  rehearsal,  standing  in  the 
centre  of  the  stage,  clad  in  costly  furs,  holding  in 
one  hand  an  edition  de  luxe  of  Shakespeare  (without 
notes),  wielding  in  the  other  a  tyrannical  sceptre 
in  the  shape  of  a  blue  pencil,  while  by  flashes  of 
limelight  he  mutilates,  with  a  fiendish,  almost 
ghoulish,  joy  on  his  face,  all  that  portion  of  the 
text  which  he  cannot  with  any  show  of  ingenuity 
commandeer  to  his  own  part.  I  can  see  him  waving 
a  recently  manicured  hand,  flashing  with  precious 
gems,  in  lofty  deprecation  of  honest  merit  gibber- 
ing in  a  corner.  I  can  imagine  him,  leaving  the 
half-finished  rehearsal,  bent  on  some  errand  of 
gluttony,  and  oozing  through  the  stage  door,  the 
decadent  odour  of  his  scented  curls  hitting  the 
nostrils  of  the  virtuous  commentator  to  whose 
muttered  footnote  he  turns  a  deaf  ear ;  I  can  see 
him  carelessly  fling  a  handful  of  superfluous  gold 
to  a  group  of  satellites  who  raise  a  hireling  cheer 
as  he  leaps  into  his  triumphal  auto-motor  car, 
wherein,  juggernauting  with  the  relentless  revolu- 
tions of  its  gilded  wheels,  the  prostrate  figures  of 
Literature,  Art,  and  Science,  he  is  puffed  away  to 
his  lordly  mansion  in  Grosvenor  Square.  But 
away  with  him  ! 

SS 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

The  last  of  the  attacks  upon  the  modern 
method  of  mounting  Shakespeare  with  which  I 
propose  to  deal  is  the  accusation  that  under  the 
present  system  scenic  embellishment  is  not  simple 
and  inexpensive  or  subordinate  to  the  dramatic 
interest.  To  this  I  say  that,  worthily  to  represent 
Shakespeare,  the  scenic  embellishment  should  be 
as  beautiful  and  costly  as  the  subject  of  the  drama 
being  performed  seems  to  demand  ;  that  it  should 
not  be  subordinate  to,  but  rather  harmonious  with, 
the  dramatic  interest,  just  as  every  other  element 
of  art  introduced  into  the  representation  should 
be — whether  those  arts  be  of  acting,  painting, 
sculpture,  music,  or  what  not.  The  man  who  in 
his  dramatic  genius  has  made  the  nearest  approach 
to  Shakespeare  is  probably  Wagner.  Did  Wagner 
regard  his  work  as  independent  of  the  aids  which 
his  time  gave  him  to  complete  the  illusion  of  the 
spectator  ?  No ;  he  availed  himself  of  all  the 
effects  with  which  modern  art  could  help  him,  no 
doubt  saying  to  himself,  as  Moliere  said,  "  Je 
prends  mon  bien  ou  je  le  trouve."  All  these  he 
enslaved  in  the  service  of  the  theatre.  Wagner's 
works  are  primarily  dramas  heightened  by  the  aid 
of  music,  of  scenery,  of  atmosphere,  of  costumes, 
all  gorgeous  or  simple  as  the  situation  requires. 
Stripped  of  these  aids,  would  Wagner  have  the 
deep  effect  on  audiences  such  as  we  have  witnessed 
at    Bayreuth  ?     No !     Every    man    should    avail 

56 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

himself  of  the  aids  which  his  generation  affords 
him.  It  is  only  the  weakling  who  harks  back 
echoically  to  the  methods  of  a  bygone  generation. 
That  painter  is  surely  greater  who  sees  nature — 
human  and  otherwise — with  the  clear  eyes  of  his 
own  time  rather  than  through  the  blurred  spec- 
tacles of  a  bygone  age.  Indeed,  no  man  is  great  in 
any  walk  of  life  unless  he  is,  in  the  best  sense,  of 
his  time.  A  good  workman  does  not  quarrel  with 
the  tools  his  generation  has  given  him,  any  more 
than  a  good  general  will  reject  the  weapons  of 
modern  warfare  on  the  score  that  muzzle-loaders 
were  "  good  enough  "  for  his  forefathers. 

Having  noticed  what  there  is  to  be  said  against 
the  modern  stage,  let  us  now  see  what  the  modern 
stage  has  to  say  for  itself.  I  take  it  that  the 
entire  business  of  the  stage  is — Illusion.  As  the 
entire  aim  of  all  art  is  Illusion,  to  gain  this 
end  all  means  are  fair.  The  same  is  sometimes 
said  of  love  and  war,  though  I  incline  to  dismiss 
this  declaration  as  an  ethical  fallacy.  Illusion, 
then,  is  the  first  and  last  word  of  the  stage  ;  all 
that  aids  illusion  is  good,  all  that  destroys  illusion 
is  bad.  This  simple  law  governs  us — or  should 
govern  us.  In  that  compound  of  all  the  arts  which 
is  the  art  of  the  modern  theatre,  the  sweet  grace 
of  restraint  is  of  course  necessary,  and  the  scenic 
embellishments  should  not  overwhelm  the  dramatic 

57 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

interest,  or  the  balance  is  upset — the  illusion  is 
gone  !  This  nice  balance  depends  upon  the  tact 
of  the  presiding  artist,  and  often  the  greatest 
illusion  will  be  attained  by  the  simplest  means. 
For  instance,  a  race  run  off  the  stage  and  witnessed 
by  an  excited  and  interested  crowd  of  actors  will 
probably  be  more  effective  than  one  devised  of 
cardboard  horses  jerking  to  the  winning-post  in 
the  face  of  the  audience.  Is  illusion  destroyed  by 
getting  as  near  as  we  can  to  a  picture  of  the  real 
thing  ?  Supposing  that  in  the  course  of  a  play  a 
scene  is  placed  "  Before  a  castle,"  and  a  reference 
is  made  in  the  dialogue  to  the  presence  of  the 
castle,  would  it  be  disturbing  to  an  audience's 
imagination  to  see  that  castle  painted  on  the 
cloth  ?  If  it  did  so  disturb  an  audience,  then  the 
castle  would  be  out  of  place.  That  is  to  say,  if 
the  audience  turned  to  one  another  and  whispered, 
"  That  is  a  castle — how  extraordinary  !  "  that 
would  be  breaking  the  illusion.  Even  more  dis- 
turbing, however,  would  it  be  for  the  audience  to 
turn  to  one  another  and  to  whisper,  "  But  there 
ain't  no  castle  !  "  It  is  quite  conceivable  that  in 
former  times  a  finely  painted  scene  would  have 
distracted  the  attention  of  the  audience,  because 
it  was  unexpected  —  but  now  appropriate 
illustration  is  the  normal  condition  of  the 
theatre. 

I  have  said  that  I  could  understand  such  writers 

S8 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

as  Hazlitt,  Lamb,  and  Emerson  declaring  that 
they  preferred  that  Shakespeare  should  not  be 
presented  on  the  stage  at  all,  for  there  is  undoubt- 
edly a  tendency  in  performances  other  than  those 
of  the  first  order  to  destroy  the  illusion  of  the 
highly  cultured  ;  and  I  can  conceive  that  such  a 
one  would  say  to  himself,  "  Why  undergo  the 
unnecessary  discomfort  and  expense  of  a  visit  to 
the  theatre  when  I  can  read  my  Shakespeare  at 
ease  in  my  arm-chair  ?  " 

I  can  realise  that  a  satisfactory  result  may  be 
obtained  by  a  number  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  in 
ordinary  attire,  playing  before  a  green  baize  cur- 
tain and  reciting  the  verse  without  recourse  to 
stage  appointments  of  any  kind  ;  for  the  imagina- 
tion would  not  be  offended  by  inappropriate  acces- 
sories. But  I  cannot  admit  a  compromise  between 
this  primitive  form  of  dramatic  representation  and 
that  which  obtains  to-day.  It  must  be  a  frank 
convention  or  an  attempt  at  complete  illusion. 
To  illustrate  this,  suppose  we  have  a  scene  which 
takes  place  in  Athens  ;  it  would  be  better  to  have 
no  scene  at  all  than  a  view  of  the  Marylebone 
Road. 

But  possibly  the  best  means  of  justifying  the 
modern  method  of  putting  Shakespeare  upon  the 
stage,  and  the  public's  liking  of  that  method,  is  to 
demonstrate  that  in  principle  at  least  it  departs 
in  no  way  from  the  manner  in  which  the  dramatist 

59 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

himself  indicated  that  his  works  should  be  pre- 
sented.  Let  us  call  Shakespeare  himself  as  a 
witness  on  this  issue,  and  show  that  he  not  only 
foresaw,  but  desired,  the  system  of  production 
that  is  now  most  in  the  public  favour.  Surely  no 
complaint  can  be  raised  against  those  who  seek, 
in  putting  an  author's  work  upon  the  stage,  to 
carry  out  the  author's  wishes  in  the  matter;  and 
it  is  better  to  follow  those  directions  than  to  listen 
to  the  critics  of  three  hundred  years  later,  who 
clamour  for  a  system  exactly  opposite  to  the  one 
which  the  author  distinctly  advocated.  In  spite 
of  what  has  been  said  to  the  contrary,  I  adhere 
to  my  reading  of  the  prelude  to  Henry  V .,  and 
contend  that  in  those  most  beautiful  lines  Shake- 
speare regretted  the  deficiencies  of  the  stage  of 
his  day,  for  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  in 
writing  those  lines  he  did  not  mean  the  opposite  of 
what  he  said,  as  we  are  ingeniously  told  he  did. 
Here  it  will  be  seen  what  store  Shakespeare  sets 
on  illusion  for  the  theatre,  and  how  he  implores 
the  spectator  to  supply  by  means  of  his  imagina- 
tion the  deficiencies  of  the  stage.  It  is,  of  course, 
impossible  on  the  stage  to  hold  in  numbers  "  the 
vasty  fields  of  France  " — but  it  is  not  impossible 
to  suggest  those  "  vasty  fields."  Can  it  be  reason- 
ably argued  that,  because  in  these  lines  he  prays 
his  auditors  to  employ  the  powers  of  their  imagina- 
tion, therefore  we  in  these  days  are  to  be  debarred 

60 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

from  helping  that  imagination  with  the  means  at 
hand  ?  But  if  we  would  get  a  really  just  view  of 
Shakespeare's  notions  of  how  his  dialogue  and 
action  were  to  be  theatrically  assisted,  we  need 
do  nothing  else  than  turn  to  the  stage  directions 
of  his  plays.  To  take  three  examples,  I  would 
beg  you  carefully  to  read  the  stage  instructions 
in  The  Tempest,  Henry  VIII.,  and  Pericles,  and 
ask  yourselves  why,  if  Shakespeare  contemplated 
nothing  in  the  way  of  what  we  term  a  pro- 
duction, he  gave  such  minute  direction  for  effects 
which  even  in  our  time  of  artistic  and  scientific 
mounting  are  difficult  of  realisation.  Surely  no 
one  reading  the  vision  of  Katharine  of  Aragon  can 
come  to  any  other  conclusion  than  that  Shake- 
speare intended  to  leave  as  little  to  the  imagination 
as  possible,  and  to  put  upon  the  stage  as  gorgeous 
and  as  complete  a  picture  as  the  resources  of  the 
theatre  could  supply ! 

And  are  we  not  inclined  to  undervalue  a  little 
the  stage  resources  of  the  Elizabethan  period  ? 
And  are  we  not  prone  to  assume  that  Shakespeare 
had  far  less  in  this  direction  to  his  hand  than  the 
scant  limits  for  which  we  give  him  credit  ?  Of 
scenery  in  the  public  theatres  there  was  practically 
none,  but  in  the  private  houses  and  in  the  castles 
of  the  nobles,  when  plays  were  played  at  the  cele- 
bration of  births  and  marriages  and  comings-of- 
age,  we  find  that  mounting,  scenery,  costume,  and 

61 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

music  were  largely  employed  as  adjuncts  to  these 
performances.  In  fact,  when  we  read  the  descrip- 
tion of  some  of  the  masques  and  interludes,  when 
we  consider  the  gorgeousness  of  display  and  the 
money  that  was  expended  for  only  single  per- 
formances, we  may  well  doubt  whether  even  in 
our  day  we  have  surpassed  what  our  forefathers 
of  three  centuries  ago  attained.  So  that  in  justify- 
ing the  lavishness  of  modern  productions  we  are 
not  altogether  thrown  back  upon  the  theory  of 
Shakespeare's  "  prophetic  vision '  of  what  the 
stage  would  compass  when  he  had  been  laid  in 
his  grave.  These  shows  were  undoubtedly  wit- 
nessed by  Shakespeare  himself,  and  it  is  indeed 
not  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  he  acquired  the 
love  of  gorgeous  stage  decorations  from  such  per- 
formances witnessed  by  him  in  early  life. 

Take  the  question  of  what  we  call  "  properties." 
Shakespeare  more  than  any  other  author  seems  to 
demand  these  at  every  turn.  Swords,  helmets, 
doublets,  rings,  and  bracelets,  and  caskets  and 
crowns  are  the  inevitable  paraphernalia  of  the 
Shakespearian  drama  ;  while  as  to  music,  the  exist- 
ence of  an  orchestra  is  vouched  for  by  the  recent 
discovery  by  a  German  savant  of  a  contemporary 
drawing  of  the  interior  of  the  old  Swan  Theatre. 
This  drawing  is  reproduced  in  Mr.  Sidney  Lee's 
remarkable  "  Life  of  Shakespeare,"  and  proves 
conclusively  that  instrumentalists  were  employed 

62 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

to  heighten  the  effect  of  the  spoken  words,  as 
indeed  Shakespeare's  stage  instructions  continually 
indicate  they  should.  When  we  come  to  the 
question  of  costumes,  the  case  is  even  stronger. 
The  burning  of  the  Globe  Theatre — an  event,  by 
the  way,  due  to  the  realism  of  Shakespeare's  stage 
management  —  robbed  us  of  many  important 
documents,  but  in  the  inventory  still  in  existence 
of  the  costume  wardrobe  of  a  London  theatre  in 
Shakespeare's  time  ("  Henslowe's  Diary ")  there 
are  mentioned  particular  costumes  for  cardinals, 
shepherds,  kings,  clowns,  friars,  and  fools  ;  green 
coats  for  Robin  Hood's  men,  and  a  green  gown 
for  Maid  Marian  ;  a  white  and  gold  doublet  for 
Henry  V.,  and  a  robe  for  Longshanks,  besides  sur- 
plices, copes,  damask  frocks,  gowns  of  cloth  of 
gold  and  of  cloth  of  silver,  taffeta  gowns,  calico 
gowns,  velvet  coats,  satin  coats,  frieze  coats, 
jerkins  of  yellow  leather  and  of  black  leather,  red 
suits,  grey  suits,  French  pierrot  suits,  a  robe  "  for 
to  go  invisibell  "  and  four  farthingales.  There 
are  also  entries  of  Spanish,  Moorish,  and  Danish 
costumes,  of  helmets,  lances,  painted  shields, 
imperial  crowns  and  papal  tiaras,  as  well  as  of 
costumes  for  Turkish  janissaries,  Roman  senators, 
and  all  the  gods  and  goddesses  of  High  Olympus  ! 
No  dramatist  of  the  French,  English,  or 
Athenian  stage  relies  as  Shakespeare  does  for  his 
effects  on  the  dress  of  his  actors  ;    he  not  only 

63 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

appreciated  the  value  of  costume  in  adding  pic- 
turesqueness  to  poetry,  but  he  saw  how  important 
it  is  as  a  means  for  producing  certain  dramatic 
results.  Many  of  his  plays,  such  as  Measure  for 
Measure,  Twelfth  Night,  the  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona,  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  Cymbelinc, 
The  Merchant  of  Venice,  and  others,  depend 
entirely  on  the  character  of  the  various  dresses 
worn  by  the  hero  and  heroine,  and,  unless  these 
dresses  be  accurate,  the  author's  effect  will  be  lost. 
Nor  are  the  examples  of  the  employment  of  cos- 
tume as  a  means  of  intensifying  dramatic  situations 
less  numerous.  Macbeth  in  his  nightgown,  Timon 
in  rags,  Richard  flattering  the  citizens  of  London 
in  mean  and  shabby  armour  and  afterwards  march- 
ing through  the  town  in  Crown  and  George  and 
Garter,  Prospero  throwing  off  his  magician's  robe 
and  calling  for  hat  and  rapier,  and  the  very  Ghost 
in  Hamlet  changing  his  mystical  attire  to  produce 
different  effects,  are  all  examples  of  this.  Nobody 
from  the  mere  details  of  apparel  has  drawn  such 
irony  of  situation — such  immediate  and  tragic 
effect — such  pity  and  pathos — as  has  Shakespeare 
himself.  Armed  cap-a-pie,  the  dead  King  stalks 
on  the  battlements  of  Elsinore  because  all  is  not 
well  with  Denmark.  Shylock's  gabardine  is  part 
of  the  reproach  under  which  he  writhes,  and 
Orlando's  blood-stained  napkin  strikes  the  first 
sombre  note  in  As   You  Like  It.     Whatever  was 

64 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

the  case  then,  there  is  no  reason  that  we  should 
continue  in  imperfections  which  may  be  supposed 
to  characterise  Shakespeare's  stage  mounting.  I 
have  endeavoured  to  call  Shakespeare  as  a  witness 
for  the  justification  of  the  public  taste  through 
the  means  of  his  printed  words  ;  we  have,  as  it 
were,  taken  his  evidence  on  commission  ;  and  I 
would  have  you  read  the  delightful  scene  in  the 
last  act  of  A  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream,  which  is 
itself  the  most  tinglingly  satirical  skit  on  the 
primitive  methods  of  the  stage — the  ruthless  ex- 
position of  which  shows  how  Shakespeare  himself, 
in  this  humorous  lament  of  Adequacy,  stood  forth 
as  the  staunch  advocate  of  a  wider  stage  art.  If  we 
are  to  mount  his  plays  in  the  manner  of  his  time, 
we  may  go  farther  and  hold  that  because  in  Shake- 
speare's day  women's  parts  were  represented  by 
boys,  actresses  should  be  driven  from  the  theatre. 
It  is  true  that  the  practice  is  still  in  vogue  in 
pantomime,  except  when  the  order  is  reversed  and 
the  leading  lady  is  the  "  principal  boy  "  ;  but  I 
question  whether  the  severest  sticklers  for  the 
methods  of  Elizabethan  days  would  advocate  that 
Ophelia  should  be  represented  by  Mr.  Wilson 
Barrett  and  Desdemona  by  Mr.  Benson. 

Accuracy    of    detail,    for    the    sake    of    perfect 
illusion,   is  necessary  for  us.     What  we  have  to 
see  is  that  the  details  are  not  allowed  to  over- 
shadow the  principal  theme,  and  this  they  never 
f  65 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

can  do  while  they  arc  carefully  and  reasonably 
introduced.  As  Victor  Hugo  says,  "  the  smallest 
details  of  history  and  domestic  life  should  be 
minutely  studied  and  reproduced  by  the  manager, 
but  only  as  a  means  to  increase  the  reality  (not 
the  realism)  of  the  whole  work,  and  to  drive 
into  the  obscurest  corners  of  a  play  an  atmosphere 
of  the  general  and  pulsating  life  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  characters  are  truest  and  the  catastrophes 
consequently  the  most  poignant." 

The  art  of  the  theatre  is  of  comparatively 
modern  birth — it  has  become  more  widely  appeal- 
ing, because  it  has  embraced  within  its  radius 
many  arts  and  many  sciences,  and  because,  through 
their  aids,  it  epitomises  for  us,  in  an  appealing  and 
attractive  form,  the  thoughts,  the  aspirations,  the 
humours  and  the  passions  of  humanity,  as  expressed 
by  the  dramatist.  Campbell  wrote  it  in  his  fare- 
well stanzas  to  John  Philip  Kemble  deftly  enough  : 

"  His  was  the  spell  o'er  hearts 
Which  only  acting  lends — 
The  youngest  of  the  sister  Arts 
Where  all  their  beauty  blends. 
For  ill  can  poetry  express 
Full  many  a  tone  or  thought  sublime, 
And  Painting  mute  and  motionless 
Steals  but  a  glance  of  time. 
But  by  the  mighty  actor  brought 
Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come, 
Verses  cease  to  be  airy  thought 
And  Sculpture  to  be  dumb." 

66 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

There  is  another  point  of  view  of  this  question 
which  I  would  fain  touch  upon  before  I  shuffle  off 
the  coil  of  this  paper — and  that  is  the  point  of 
view  of  the  artist  himself.  He  works  not  only  for 
the  public,  he  works,  and  I  think  should  work, 
primarily  for  himself.  To  satisfy  his  own  artistic 
conscience  should  be  his  first  aim — and  this  is 
what  the  public,  unconsciously  perhaps,  appre- 
ciates and  respects.  Now,  whatever  may  be  said 
as  to  pandering  to  the  public  taste,  I  maintain 
that  the  artist  himself  would  not  remain  satisfied 
with  tawdry  productions.  Even  were  the  public 
indifferent  on  this  point  (which  happily  it  is  not), 
it  should  still  be  the  actor's  best  endeavour  to 
aim  at  the  highest  that  is  within  his  reach  and 
to  exhaust  the  resources  which  his  generation  has 
given  him.  It  is,  I  maintain,  a  fallacy  to  say  that 
the  manager  merely  follows  the  public  taste  ;  by 
giving  a  supply  of  his  best  he  often  creates  a 
demand  for  what  is  good,  and  it  is  largely  his 
initiative — the  stimulus  which  his  individual  enthu- 
siasm and  imagination  give  to  the  production  of 
great  works — which  preserves  for  those  works  the 
recognition  and  support  of  the  public  which  follows 
him.  Perhaps  the  ideal  of  the  artist  is  not  always 
understanded  of  the  public,  but  unless  he  keep 
his  ideal  high,  be  sure  the  public  will  not  regard 
him.  If  he  descend  below  the  level  of  public 
taste,  the  public  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  ascend 

67 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

to  his  at  his  call.  I  do  not  claim  that  in  this  he  is 
necessarily  guided  by  a  self-conscious  code  of 
ethics — it  is  oftenest  his  ambition  that  impels  him 
to  the  highest  work  of  which  he  is  capable.  He 
cannot,  in  fact,  be  merely  adequate.  And  who  are 
the  trustees  of  the  Stage's  good  ?  Despite  the 
dicta  of  literary  coteries,  I  maintain  that  the  only 
men  who  have  ever  done  anything  for  the  advance- 
ment of  the  higher  forms  of  the  drama,  the  only 
men  who  have  made  any  sacrifice  to  preserve  a 
love  of  Shakespeare  among  the  people,  the  only 
men  who  have  held  high  the  banner  of  the  play- 
house, on  which  the  name  of  Shakespeare  is  in- 
scribed, are  the  actors  themselves. 

These  thoughts  were  passing  through  my 
mind  one  night,  when  the  curtain  had  fallen 
for  the  last  time  on  Fairyland — when  the  lights 
of  Fairyland  had  one  by  one  flickered  out,  and  the 
fairies  had  gone  home  to  bed.  I  was  pacing  the 
darkened  stage,  taking  a  final  farewell  of  the  scene 
of  our  happy  revels,  when,  by  the  magic  of  imagin- 
ation, perhaps  the  touch  of  Titania's  wand,  the 
empty  stage  was  filled  with  another  fairyland — 
the  fairyland  of  the  Elysian  Fields — an  unfamiliar 
scene,  peopled  with  vaguely  familiar  forms.  There, 
clad  in  his  habit  as  he  lived,  was  a  spare  figure,  the 
domed  arch  of  whose  brow  and  whose  serene  smile 
reminded  me  strangely  of  a  bust  I  had  once  seen 

68 


The   Living  Shakespeare 

in  a  Warwickshire  church.  I  noticed  that  round 
his  neck  he  wore  an  Elizabethan  ruff.  There,  too, 
was  a  little  man  in  powdered  wig  and  flowered 
dressing-gown  reciting  now  and  then  snatches  of 
blank  verse  which  awakened  the  echoes  of  my 
memory,  and  who  was  occasionally  addressed  as 
"  Davy."  The  third  was  a  portly  and  portentous 
figure,  clad  in  a  snuff-coloured  square-cut  coat, 
and  wearing  an  ample  wig.  "  Sir !  "  said  the 
strangely  robed  and  material  looking  spirit,  "  in 
Heaven's  name  what  think  you  of  the  way  they 
are  presenting  your  plays  on  earth  ?  "  The  poet 
only  smiled.  "  Sir  !  "  the  other  persisted,  "  as  a 
commentator  I  protest.  It  seems  to  me  to  lam- 
poon antiquity  that  works  of  literary  merit  such  as 
yours  undoubtedly  possess  should  be  decked  out 
for  the  delectation  of  a  new-fangled  posterity  with 
the  vulgar  aids  of  scenic  embellishment  and  with 
prodigious  and  impertinent  supererogation."  Then 
he  of  the  ruff  spoke  with  a  serene  tolerance,  some- 
thing to  this  effect : 

I  care  not  how  'tis  done,  so  'tis  well  done. 
My  world  is  not  for  pedagogues  alone — 
What  is  that  passage,  Davy,  from  King  Hal, 
Where  Chorus  speaks  my  thoughts  anent  the  stage, 
Its  narrow  limits  and  its  endless  aims  ? 

Then  he  of  the  flowered  dressing-gown  raised 
his  voice : 

69 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

"  O  for  a  muse  of  fire,  that  would  ascend 
The  brightest  heaven  of  invention, 
A  kingdom  for  a  stage,  princes  to  act, 
And  monarchs  to  behold  the  swelling  scene  1 
Then  should  the  warlike  Harry,  like  himself, 
Assume  the  port  of  Mars  ;    and  at  his  heels, 
Leash'd  in  like  hounds,  should  famine,  sword,  and 

fire 
Crouch  for  employment.     But  pardon,  gentles  all, 
The  flat  unraised  spirits  that  have  dar'd 
On  this  unworthy  scaffold  to  bring  forth 
So  great  an  object ;    can  this  cockpit  hold 
The  vasty  fields  of  France  ?     Or  may  we  cram 
Within  this  wooden  O  the  very  casques 
That  did  affright  the  air  at  Agincourt  ? 
0,  pardon  1     Since  a  crooked  figure  may 
Attest  in  little  place  a  million  ; 
And  let  us,  ciphers  to  this  great  accompt, 
On  your  imaginary  forces  work. 
Suppose  within  the  girdle  of  these  walls 
Are  now  confined  two  mighty  monarchies, 
Whose  high  upreared  and  abutting  fronts, 
The  perilous  narrow  ocean  parts  asunder  ; 
Piece  out  our  imperfections  with  your  thoughts  ; 
Into  a  thousand  parts  divide  one  man, 
And  make  imaginary  puissance. 

•  •  •  •  • 

And  so  our  scene  must  to  the  battle  fly  ; 
Where — oh,  for  pity  !    we  shall  much  disgrace 
With  four  or  five  most  vile  and  ragged  foils, 
Right  ill-disposed  in  brawl  ridiculous 
The  name  of  Agincourt." 

"  But,  sir,"  persisted   the   rotund  speaker,  "  is 
a  poor  player,  whose  title  to  a  place  among  the 

70 


The   Living  Shakespeare 

arts  I,  as  a  literary  authority  dispute,  to  be  per- 
mitted to  put  the  stamp  of  his  time  on  the  litera- 
ture of  past  centuries,  and  through  the  public  of 
his  hour  to  desecrate  antiquity  ?  " 

"  Fudge  !  "  said  the  immortal  poet,  dropping 
into  prose.  "  Dost  thou  recall,  Davy,  that  passage 
in  the  Danish  play  in  which  I  speak  of  the  stage 
and  its  place  in  the  civilisation  of  the  world  ?  " 

Then  the  little  man  with  the  powdered  wig 
loomed  large  as  with  pride  he  spoke  of  the  purpose 
of  playing,  whose  end,  both  at  the  first  and  now, 
was  and  is,  to  hold,  as  't  were,  the  mirror  up  to 
nature  ;  to  show  virtue  her  own  feature,  scorn  her 
own  image,  and  the  very  age  and  body  of  the  time 
his  form  and  pressure. 

'  Sir !  "  said  the  shadow  of  the  learned  man — 
"  Sir  !  "  and  the  vision  began  to  fade — "  Sir  !  "  it 
faltered — and  silence  fell  again. 


AFTER-THOUGHT 

Much  that  was  written  in  the  foregoing  essay 
remains  true  to-day.  The  new  school  of  twelve 
years  ago  has  become  the  old  school  of  to-day.  We 
have  learned  that  Jaeger  is  not  the  only  wear — the 

7i 


The  Living  Shakespeare 

drab  drama  has  already  faded  into  dusky  twilight. 
The  day  after  to-morrow  so  soon  becomes  tlie  day 
before  yesterday.  What  is  called  "  the  new  move- 
ment "  is  only  the  passing  of  dead  matter.  It 
cannot,  I  confess,  be  maintained  that  the  present 
moment  is  a  propitious  one  for  the  theatre.  Rag- 
time and  Futurism  are  holding  carnival  on  our 
boards ;  but  soon  they  too  may  be  swept  away  into 
the  limbo  of  the  half-remembered,  along  with  the 
stucco  statues,  the  faded  photographs  and  the  crinoline 
classics  of  a  bygone  day.  And  almost  before  this 
printers''  ink  is  dry  the  fickle  public,  sated  with  the 
ephemeral,  may  return  once  more  to  the  ample  bosom 
of  the  Drama. 


•  4  * 


JIM 

THE  VINDICATION   OF  A   MISUNDERSTOOD 

MICROBE 


JIM 

The  Vindication  of  a  Misunderstood 

Microbe 


^TTE  live  in  the  age  of  Wonder.  To-day  infant 
"  ™  Science,  groping  and  stumbling  towards  the 
light,  leads  Truth  by  the  hand.  In  front  of  them 
dances  a  will-o'-the-wisp — it  is  Imagination,  blind 
seer  in  the  dark,  weaving  in  his  passage  gossamer 
bridges  of  fancy  across  the  morasses  of  Ignorance, 
and  lighting  up  the  mysteries  of  the  Unseen 
World.  Beyond,  as  in  a  transformation-scene  of 
phantasmagoric  post-impressionism,  we  dimly  dis- 

75 


Jim 

cern  the  minarets  of  the  spaceless  Temple  of  Nature 
— in  whose  republic  all  is  equality,  whose  tiniest 
atom  is  as  important  as  her  highest  development. 

Flesh  itself,  the  superstructure  of  the  bones  of 
boastful  man,  is  builded  of  minute  organisms 
which  in  turn  hold  rank  with  the  cataclysms  of 
Nature,  where  order  is  but  the  spawn  of  chaos, 
and  reason  itself  but  the  accidental  offspring  of 
madness  fatigued. 

But  let  us  descend  from  the  realms  of  trans- 
cendental blague  to  the  brass  tacks  of  my  modest 
tale.  My  tale  is  of  a  microbe,  and  his  name  is 
Jim. 

It  was  thus  I  made  his  acquaintance : 

I  have  for  friend  a  surgeon,  one  of  the  glories 
of  medical  research,  who  in  his  leisure  moments 
— and  they  are  few — is  good  enough  to  discuss 
with  me  the  mysteries  of  the  unseen  world,  as 
revealed  by  science.  Such  is  his  grasp  of  his 
subject  that  my  friend  Pipp  (for  that  is  his  name) 
speaks  in  terms  of  familiarity  of  the  countless 
myriads  of  inhabitants  which  reside  in  and  govern 
each  of  our  bodies.  It  is  to  the  elucidation  of  the 
secret  which  has  hitherto  impenetrably  shrouded 
this  unknown  world  that  Science  to-day  is  bending 
its  efforts.  Soon  the  microbe  will  be  recognised 
as  the  actual  ruler  of  the  universe ;  through  me 
to-day  it  is  for  the  first  time  allowed  articulate 
utterance.     If  good  and  evil  govern  the  world,  it 

76 


Jim 

is  because  the  opposing  forces  of  beneficent  and 
malignant  microbes  are  constantly  at  war  in  the 
human    body.      On    the     beneficent    microbe    is 
dependent    not    only     the     health,    the     resistive 
strength   of   our   bodies,   but   it   will    be   seen  by 
the   revelations  which   I   am   privileged  to  make 
that  our  very  mental  state  is  determined  by  these 
denizens  of  the  blood,  to-day   (thanks  to  me)  no 
longer  the  dumb  slaves  of  darkness  and  ignorance. 
The  dawn  of  the  rule  of  the  beneficent  microbe 
is  at  hand — it  is  the  triumph  of  health  over  dis- 
ease.    With  a  proper  understanding  of  this  great 
question  we  shall  be  enabled  to  control  the  evil 
germs  that  have  afflicted  mankind  from  its  inception, 
and  thus  allow  free  play  to  the  energies  of  the  true 
friends  of  man.     It  may  even  be  that  we  are  on 
the  threshold  of  discoveries  which  may  reveal  to 
us   the   yet   deeper   mysteries   of   the   soul- world. 
In  making  public  the  facts  which  placed  me  at 
one  bound  in  intimate  communication  with  the 
occult   world,    I   do   not   as   a   mere   layman   ask 
credence  at  the  hands  of  a  sceptical  community, 
bounded,  as  it  has  hitherto  been,  by  the  precise 
revelations  of  a  material  science.     I  am  aware  that 
it  may  even  be  argued  that  my  discoveries  are 
traceable  to  an  abnormal   physical   condition,   in 
which  the  mind  is  subject  to  hallucinations.     I  do 
not  dogmatise  :    I  merely  record  what  happened. 
In  a  busy  life  such  as  mine,  it  is  impossible  to 

77 


Jim 

follow  up  the  clues  which  momentary  exaltation 
may  reveal — impressions  which  we  may  not  be 
able  to  recapture  in  the  rush  through  space.  I 
will  now  describe  what  happened  in  the  plainest 
words. 

My  revelations  came  through  the  simple  agency 
of  a  microscope. 

My  scientific  friend  motioned  me  to  his  arm- 
chair and  pressed  the  microscope  into  my  hand. 

"  Look  at  that  little  fellow,"  he  said  in  his 
matter-of-fact  manner.  "  That  is  the  warrior  who 
does  battle  for  mankind  ;  he  is  in  us  all,  fighting 
the  forces  of  death  which  are  constantly  besetting 
us.  He  is  the  most  important  factor  with  which 
modern  surgery  has  to  deal.  His  full  Latin  name 
is  Streptococcus  erysipalus,  but  I  call  him  '  Jim  ' 
for  short.     Just  you  turn  your  eye  on  him." 

I  looked  at  Jim  through  the  microscope,  and 
he  seemed  to  squirm,  as  though  resenting  the 
gaze  of  man.  So  powerful  is  the  unique  micro- 
scope possessed  by  my  friend  Pipp  that  I  could 
actually  see  the  expression  in  the  face  of  the 
imprisoned  microbe.  While  its  body  resembled  that 
of  the  ordinary  tadpole,  the  face  of  this  world- 
weary  aristocrat  of  the  blood  was  strangely  fascinat- 
ing— not  to  say  haunting.  By  its  side  the  counten- 
ance of  Mr.  Arthur  Balfour  would  appear  plebeian. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  a  kind  of  sympathy  was  at 
once    established    between    our    two    organisms. 

78 


Jim 

Many  a  time  had  I  looked  upon  the  malignant 
microbes  whose  faces  resembled  those  of  evil  men 
I  had  met  in  life.  The  complacent  grin  of  the 
sweater  of  labour,  the  leer  of  the  blackmailer,  the 
perennial  smile  of  the  man  who  is  perpetually 
denying  charity  :  all  these  were  familiar  to  me. 
What  a  contrast  was  here  ! 

As  I  gazed  at  this  curious  mite,  I  became  con- 
scious that  I  was  undergoing  a  strange  mental 
transformation — a  sensation  that  I  had  only  expe- 
rienced in  an  operation  under  ether.  The  eyes  of 
the  bacillus  appeared  to  grow  larger  and  larger, 
until  they  seemed  to  draw  me  through  their  sockets 
into  the  inner  recesses  of  the  magic  world.  I  half 
realised  that  I  was  under  hypnotic  influence.  In 
my  right  hand  I  held  a  pencil ;  a  piece  of  foolscap 
paper  was  by  my  side ;  and  in  this  condition  I 
wrote  down  what  Jim  (for  I  had  suddenly  become 
perfectly  familiar  with  the  subject  of  my  tale) 
imparted  to  me  in  my  trance.  Though  it  would 
be  ridiculous  to  suppose  that  our  intercourse  was 
conducted  through  the  medium  of  the  English 
language,  yet  it  was  thus  on  waking  that  I  found 
the  conversation  recorded  on  the  sheets  of  fools- 
cap at  my  side.  It  is  obvious  that  the  confidences 
made  to  me  could  only  have  been  through  the 
means  of  telepathy  which  it  would  now  appear 
can  be  set  up  between  every  kind  of  vital  organism. 

Thus  the  record  begins  : 

79 


Jim 

"  You  must  not  ask  me  about  what  is  before 
us  ;  only  what  is  past  can  be  vouchsafed.  I  am 
a  part  of  life — for  life  springs  from  me.  I  am 
the  primeval  germ  from  which  mankind  was 
evolved.  I  know  all  that  has  gone  since  the  be- 
ginning, for  my  memory  is  not  like  man's,  con- 
fined to  his  own  life  ;  I  remember  through  all  my 
ancestry.  No,  there  is  no  beginning,  as  there  is 
no  end.     It  is  thus  :  " 


Here  the  tadpole-like  organism  swallowed  its 
tail  and  described  a  circle.     I  understood. 

The  record  continues  : 

"It  is  idle  to  suppose  that  life  is  contained 
only  in  man,  in  animals,  and  vegetables — life  is 
everywhere.  At  this  moment  your  body  is  sur- 
rounded by  an  encircling  army  of  microbes,  con- 
stantly fighting  for  you  against  the  onslaughts  of 
inimical  microbes,  the  emissaries  of  death.  Yes, 
within  a  radius  of  some  miles  I  see  your  surround- 
ing retinue  now.  It  is  through  this  army  of 
satellites  that  man  influences  and  magnetises  his 
fellows.  You  cannot  account  for  your  likes  and 
dislikes.  You  cannot  control  the  affections.  Love 
itself  is  but  the  sympathetic  mating  of  these 
microbes.     You   are   unconscious   why   you   influ- 

*  Illustration  by  the  author. 
So 


Jim 

enee  or  are  influenced  by  another  human — the 
power  of  will  itself,  the  exercise  of  one  mentality 
over  another,  or  over  tens  of  thousands  of  other 
human  beings,  is  dependent  on  the  force  of  the 
microbes  that  attend  you.  Men  call  this  force 
personality.  My  advice  to  mankind  is  :  '  Tend 
your  microbes  with  care,  for  on  them  depends 
your  well  being.' 

'  No,  death  has  no  terror  for  me,  for  as  my 
life  in  this  body  departs  it  takes  new  shape  ;  it 
may  be  that  in  my  next  state  I  shall  glow  in  a 
fire  or  form  part  of  a  miasmic  vapour.  See,  as  I 
speak  to  you  I  give  birth  to  a  million  progeny." 
(He  did.)  '  If  you  put  me  on  your  tongue,  I  may 
fight  a  battle  in  your  body  against  my  eternal 
enemy  Evil.  I  remember  how  an  ancestor  of  mine 
saved  Rome.  He  and  I — for  I  am  he  and  he 
is  I — fought  a  mighty  battle  in  the  body  of  Julius 
Caesar.     I  will  relate  it  to  you. 

"  Caesar  was  afflicted  with  epilepsy.  A  great 
battle  was  in  progress  at  a  place  called  Bicentium. 
Nine  times  had  the  Roman  general  beaten 
back  the  hordes  which  attacked  his  position  in 
overwhelming  numbers  ;  for  three  nights  Caesar 
had  not  slept.  Our  own  army  of  beneficent 
microbes  (called  the  Pink-faces)  which  inhabited 
his  brain,  had  become  weaker  and  weaker,  while 
the  malignant  forces  (the  Greentails)  were  gaining 
strength  ;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  Caesar's  body 
g  81 


Jim 

began  to  collapse.  Night  had  fallen  ;  around  him 
stood  his  generals,  eager  for  instructions,  for  the 
decisive  moment  of  the  great  battle  was  at  hand. 
In  the  hour  of  victory  Caesar  had  fallen  into  a 
trance.  To  follow  up  the  victory  meant  the 
saving  of  Rome.  Its  destruction  or  safety  depended 
on  one  man  ;  the  life  of  that  one  man  was  in  turn 
dependent  on  the  power  of  the  Pink-faces  to  over- 
come the  Greentails  which  swarmed  in  overwhelm- 
ing numbers  in  his  brain.  Of  the  Pink-faces  I 
was  in  supreme  command.  The  world's  history 
was  hanging  on  my  power  so  to  direct  the  animat- 
ing fluid  through  the  arteries  of  the  great  general's 
brain  that  genius  might  assert  itself  over  the  sloth 
of  disease.  The  main  artery  of  Caesar's  brain  was 
dammed  up  by  dead  and  poison-engendering  Pink- 
faces.  To  save  Caesar  meant  a  mighty  effort. 
Few  men  had  shown  greater  consideration  for  his 
army  of  beneficent  microbes  than  had  Julius 
Caesar.  Often  in  great  moments  would  he  give 
to  his  brain  fumes  of  rich  heroising  wines,  and  for 
this  we  were  grateful.  In  the  millionth  part  of  a 
moment  I  decided  on  an  almost  forlorn  hope 
which  should  save  the  life  of  the  great  man,  turn 
the  fortunes  of  the  fight,  and  so  save  Rome. 

"  The  coup  demanded  a  great  sacrifice  of  life  ; 
only  sixteen  myriad  Pink-faces  were  left  in  Caesar's 
veins.  It  was  all-important  that  the  Greentails 
should  be  lulled  into  inertia,  and  to  this  end  I 

82 


Jim 

decided  that  fifteen  myriad  of  us  should  be  sacri- 
ficed. I  knew  they  must  be  overwhelmed  by  the 
hundred  myriad  o'  Greentails  who  were  hunger- 
ing. Accordingly,  we  made  entrenchments  of 
moribund  microbes,  behind  which  I  encamped 
our  reserves  of  one  myriad  of  picked  bacilli. 
The  fifteen  myriad  I  sent  forth  to  battle,  know- 
ing their  fate  full  well.  '  Go  forth,'  I  said, 
4  as  food  for  our  immortal  enemies  the  Green- 
tails  !  '  The  Pink-faces  agreed  as  one  microbe, 
and  with  a  faint  bacillic  cry  of  '  Ave,  Caesar — 
morituri  te  salutant !  '  they  sallied  forth. 

"  It  was  a  holocaust — but  an  effectual  one. 
Soon  the  Greentails  were  gorged,  sated,  and  inert. 
It  was  one  of  the  moments  of  the  world's  history. 
At  the  command  from  me,  we  broke  through  our 
entrenchments  and  fell  upon  the  Greentails,  whose 
very  sentries  were  asleep.  Within  ten  minutes 
all  the  Greentails  had  been  destroyed  by  the 
victorious  Pink-faces.  The  healthy  blood  was  once 
more  allowed  to  rush  through  Caesar's  brain,  and 
waking  from  his  stupor  he  gave  orders  that  twenty 
thousand  Romans  should  go  forth  into  the  night 
to  attack  the  enemy  numbering  one  hundred 
thousand.  These  twenty  thousand  were  to  march 
to  certain  annihilation,  while  the  remaining  ten 
thousand  were  to  steal  secretly  through  the  passes 
and  attack  the  Gauls  in  the  rear.  (This  plan  of 
battle  was  clearly  inspired  by  my  own  operation 

83 


Jim 

in  Caesar's  brain.)  On  rushed  the  twenty  thousand 
Romans  to  certain  death  ;  they  were  overcome 
by  the  enemy  who  occupied  the  forts  left  empty 
by  our  ten  thousand,  who  now,  led  by  Caesar  him- 
self, made  the  encircling  movements  towards  the 
enemy's  rear.  While  the  Gauls  were  feasting  in 
celebration  of  their  victory,  they  were  fallen  upon 
by  Caesar's  army  and  were  dispersed  in  all  direc- 
tions, leaving  twenty-five  thousand  men  slain  on 
the  field.  This  is  a  brief  history  of  the  battle  of 
Bicentium. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Jim,  "  I  live  by  destroying 
evil ;  I  am  an  eater  of  evil — my  digestion  requires 
this  stimulus,  for  the  beneficent  microbe  is  not 
cannibalistic — our  own  kind  disagrees  with  us. 
In  order  to  live,  we  must  be  constantly  at  war 
with  evil.  Men  say  that  two  negatives  make  a 
positive.  We  microbes  hold  the  paradox  equally 
true  (as  most  paradoxes  are)  that  two  positives 
make  a  negative,  for  if  good  eats  good,  we  die  ! 
We  perish  of  perfection." 

To  perish  of  perfection,  I  thought — how 
wonderful  an  end  !  If  that  end  could  be  vouch- 
safed to  mankind — to  die  of  a  disease  called 
beauty  !  That  instead  of  dying  of  the  ugliness 
of  disease,  we  might  mercifully  become  more  and 
more  perfect  as  we  approached  death,  so  that 
our  loved  ones  might  stand  round  our  deathbed 

84 


Jim 

in  mute  admiration,  gazing  upon  the  lovely  climax 
of  life,  and  the  vanishing  point  of  Beauty — 
Death  !  That  our  end  should  be  as  a  beautiful 
song  fading  into  silence,  or  as  a  fountain  rising 
higher  and  higher  till,  kissing  heaven,  it  should 
spend  its  splendour  in  prismatic  spray  and  so 
gently  fall  into  the  peaceful  basin  of  Eternity. 

To  perish  of  perfection — yes,  that  is  the  ulti- 
mate goal  of  humanity  !  My  brain  was  obsessed 
with  this  ideal.  Then  I  underwent  a  swoon 
within  a  swoon,  wherein  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
was  on  the  threshold  of  a  great  discovery — the 
ultimate  perfection  of  mankind.  A  kind  of  patent 
millennium  presented  itself  to  my  frenzied  brain 
— the  survival  of  good  by  the  extermination  of 
evil.  In  my  dream  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was 
the  great  benefactor  of  mankind.  In  the  visions 
of  sleep  it  is  difficult  to  release  one's  second  being 
from  the  realities  of  life.  I  had  often  wondered, 
in  patting  little  children  on  the  head,  why  they 
had  a  soft  spot  in  the  middle  of  their  skulls.  In 
my  dream  I  set  up  a  laboratory,  and  after  dis- 
secting several  monkeys  and  some  babies,  I  arrived 
at  the  conclusion  that  through  this  yet  open 
channel  one  could,  by  an  infusion  of  myriads  of 
beneficent  microbes,  destroy  those  other  malignant 
microbes  which  go  to  make  the  vicious  part  of 
our  natures.  A  new  conception  of  ethics  filled  my 
mind.     What  is  virtue  ?      The  preponderance  of 

85 


Jim 

Pink-faces  in  us.  What  is  vice  ?  The  preponderance 
of  Greentails.  The  millennium  was  in  sight  on 
the  distant  horizon  of  my  imagination.  I  was 
acclaimed  the  greatest  benefactor  of  mankind. 
Standing  on  the  plinth  of  the  Nelson  column,  I 
imparted  my  great  discovery  to  a  mass  meeting 
in  Trafalgar  Square.  The  meeting  was  presided 
over  by  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  ;  on  his 
right  His  Grace  was  supported  by  Lord  Charles 
Beresford  and  Mr.  Winston  Churchill,  cheek  by 
jowl ;  while  on  his  left  sat  Mrs.  Pankhurst  in 
jet,  and  Mr.  Gordon  Craig,  the  president  of  the 
Siberian  Stage  Society.  As  I  write,  the  echo 
of  the  cheers  that  greeted  my  announcement  still 
rings  in  my  ears.  The  new  world  had  begun — 
the  reign  of  the  beneficent  microbe.  All  humanity 
flocked  to  the  National  Hospital  which  bore  my 
name.  Children  were  brought  from  all  corners  of 
the  earth  that  they  might  submit  to  the  system 
of  inoculation  by  which  the  antiseptic  of  virtue 
exterminated  in  early  youth  the  vice  which  in 
past  ages  had  afflicted  the  human  race. 

In  my  trance  I  was  swiftly  projected  through 
the  centuries  to  witness  the  triumph  of  my  own 
genius.  On  every  side  I  saw  statues  and  alms- 
houses erected  in  my  honour.  Wars  had  ceased 
automatically ;  theft  was  unknown.  The  Ten 
Commandments  were  no  longer  taught  at  school, 
for  none  had    been  broken  for  centuries.     Crime 

86 


Jim 

was  unheard  of  ;  passion  was  dethroned,  and  in 
its  place  there  reigned  a  kind  of  platonic  free  love. 
I  stalked  for  centuries  through  a  bloodless  neutral- 
tinted  world. 

But  gradually  it  seemed  to  me  that  a  trans- 
formation took  place ;  I  peered  into  the  new 
world — it  was  neutral-tinted — there  were  no  vices, 
consequently  there  were  no  virtues.  It  was  borne 
in  upon  me  that  in  the  march  of  centuries  the 
machinery  of  the  world  had  become  rusty. 
Butchers'  meat  did  not  arrive  in  the  morning, 
and  the  necessaries  of  life  became  scarcities  ;  even 
the  common  potato  was  a  luxury.  I  began  to 
realise  the  imperfection  of  perfection  ! 

Time  rolled  on.  I  looked  again,  and  all  man- 
kind— men  and  women — were  on  their  knees 
praying  to  me  to  give  them  back  their  vices ;  and 
I  realised  that  the  old  world — the  wicked  old 
world — had  been  run  by  the  vices,  that  it  was 
greed  and  envy  and  avarice  that  caused  the 
wheels  of  the  world  to  revolve.  I  stood  in  a  very 
havoc  of  peace,  impotent  to  restore  the  imper- 
fections for  which  humanity  was  shrieking. 

Suddenly  I  seemed  to  waken  from  my  paren- 
thetic dream.  My  eyes  were  once  more  fixed  on 
the  face  at  the  other  end  of  the  microscope.  Then 
Jim  spoke  again  : 

"  There  can  be  no  perfection." 

87 


Jim 

"  You  mean,"  said  I,  "  that  if  there  were  no 
evil  in  the  world,  there  would  be  no  good  ?  " 

"  You've  hit  it,"  retorted  Jim.  (The  slang  was 
his — not  mine.)  He  continued  :  "  All  subsists  by 
elemental  strife,  and  passions  are  the  elements  of 
life." 

"  You  are  quoting  Pope,"  said  I. 

"  No,"  Jim  replied ;  "  Pope  quoted  me.  I 
inhabited  his  brain  at  the  time  he  wrote  his  Essay 
on  Man,  and  I  inspired  the  passage  with  which 
you  appear  to  be  familiar." 

"  A  curious  coincidence,"  I  remarked. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Jim  coldly. 
1  Now   I   see,"    I   ventured.     "  What   is   true 
among   microbes   is   true   among   us   humans.     If 
there     were     no     vices     there     would     be     no 
virtues." 

A  silence  more  eloquent  than  words  fell  upon 
me  ;    it  was  the  silence  of  wisdom. 

'  Tell  me  one  thing  more — you  who  hold  the 
mystery  of  all  the  past  ages — tell  me  what  of  the 

future  ?     What  of  eternity  ?     What "  I  cried 

in  a  mad  frenzy  of  egotism,  "  what  of  the  life 
hereafter  ?  Vouchsafe  to  me  the  secret  of  Immor- 
tality !  " 

A  look  came  over  the  face  of  the  microbe,  com- 
pared with  which  that  of  the  eternal  sphinx  was 
frankly  communicative.  A  guttural  sound,  like 
that  emitted  by  an  inarticulate  telephone,  filled 

88 


Jim 

my  head.  The  hand  that  held  my  pencil  seemed 
paralysed.  I  was  suddenly  shot  back  through  the 
eye  of  the  world-large  microbe,  which  seemed 
momentarily  to  shrivel  to  a  speck.  I  felt  a  heavy 
human  hand  on  my  shoulder.  I  had  awakened 
from  my  trance. 

'  What's  the  matter,  old  man  ?  "  It  was  the 
everyday  voice  of  my  friend  Pipp.  I  put  down 
the  microscope  and  gazed  at  the  MS.  in  front 
of  me,  the  last  sentences  of  which  were  blurred 
and  vague  as  the  strokes  of  a  madman  conducting 
an  imaginary  orchestra  of  apes. 

'  Take  three  long  breaths,"  said  Pipp. 

I  took  them.  "  I  have  been  talking  to  Jim," 
I  said. 

4  And  a  precious  lot  of  nonsense  you've  written 
down,"  my  friend  replied. 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  said  I.  "  The  longer  I  live, 
the  less  do  I  scoff  at  the  manifestations  of  the 
immaterial.  You  only  deal  with  what  you  see — 
I  have  been  in  touch  with  him — with  Jim — and 
Jim  knows."  So  saying,  I  passed  my  forefinger 
over  the  piece  of  glass  on  which  the  now  invisible 
body  of  Jim  had  lain,  and  applied  it  to  my 
tongue. 

"  Ah,  my  friend,"  said  the  doctor,  looking 
somewhat  anxiously  into  my  face.  "  You  pull 
yourself  together — you  want  a  rest-cure.  Now  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  I  always  thought  there  was 

89 


Jim 

a  queer  look  in  your  eyes.     Let  me  prescribe  a 
tonic  for  you." 

"  Thanks,"    I   replied ;     "  I   have   eaten   Jim, 
and  I  feel  strangely  better." 

*  *  *  # 

Pipp   and   I   are   still    friends — with   a   differ- 
ence.    We  never  speak  of  Jim. 


AFTER-THOUGHT 

How  true  all  this  remains — how  unassailable  ! 


90 


THE    IMAGINATIVE    FACULTY 

Being  an  Address  delivered  at  the  Royal  Institution 


THE  IMAGINATIVE  FACULTY 


W 


HEN  the  gift  of  Imagination  was  conferred 
upon  mankind,  a  double-edged  sword,  gar- 
landed with  flowers,  was  thrust  into  baby-hands. 
Just  as  the  highest  joys  which  are  known  to  us  are 
those  of  the  imagination,  so  also  are  our  deepest 
sorrows  the  sorrows  of  our  fantasy.  Love,  ambition, 
heroism,  the  sense  of  beauty,  virtue  itself,  become 
intensified  by  the  imagination,  until  they  reach  that 
acute  and  passionate  expression  which  renders  them 
potent  factors  for  good  or  evil  in  individuals.  Even 
so  has  the  imagination  ever  been  the  strongest  power 
in  fostering  the  aspirations,  in  shaping  the  destinies 
of  nations.  It  is  the  vision  through  the  lens  of 
which  we  see  the  realities  of  life,  either  in  the 
convex  or  in  the  concave,  diabolically  distorted 
or  divinely  out  of  drawing. 

The  theme  is  a  somewhat  wide  one;  and  a 
vague  self-persuasion  hints  to  me  that  wiser 
and  profounder  things  have  been  written  and 
spoken    of    it    than    any    to    which    I    shall    be 

93 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

able  to  give  utterance.  But  valour  is  the  better 
part  of  discretion,  and  no  plagiarist  is  so  pro- 
lific as  he  who  does  not  read.  Happily,  or 
unhappily,  I  happen  to  be  one  of  those  whose 
valour  has  not  been  blunted  by  too  much  specu- 
lative reading,  whose  imagination  has  not  been 
cramped  by  research,  nor  warped  by  scientific 
knowledge.  Indeed,  I  had  at  first  thought  of 
styling  my  address,  The  Imaginative  Faculty,  with 
some  Reflections  on  the  Pernicious  Habit  of  Reading 
Books,  but  that  the  sub-title  seemed  to  me  to 
smack  of  a  levity  not  entirely  in  harmony  with 
the  classic — shall  I  say  austere  ? — traditions  of  the 
assembly  which  I  have  the  distinguished  honour 
of  addressing — an  honour  which  I  value  the  more 
since  it  is  now  conferred  for  the  first  time  on  a 
member  of  my  calling. 

It  is,  I  say,  this  very  abstinence  from  that 
delightful  vice  of  annexing  the  thoughts  of  others 
through  the  medium  of  books  which  has  embold- 
ened me  to  explore  the  giddy  heights  and  latent 
tracts  of  the  imagination,  regardless  of  the  land- 
marks erected  by  those  who  have  trodden  its  terri- 
tory less  falteringly  ;  but  just  as  each  eye  will 
catch  a  different  reflection  of  a  landscape,  just 
as  a  musical  instrument  possessing  but  a  limited 
number  of  notes  will  yet  admit  of  an  infinite 
variety  of  combination,  likewise  I  may  be  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  give  some  variations  of  the  eternal 

94 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

melody  whose  leii-motif  poets  and  thinkers  have 
sung  to  mankind.  And  in  endeavouring  to  narrow 
down  the  discussion  of  this  imaginative  faculty  to 
its  influence  on  my  own  art,  I  shall  at  least  be  able 
to  speak  from  personal  observation  and,  in  that 
sense,  with  the  authority  of  experience. 

"  Can  acting  be  taught  ?  "  is  a  question  which 
has  been  theoretically  propounded  in  many  a 
magazine  article,  and  has  vexed  the  spirit  of  count- 
less debating  societies.  It  is  answered  in  practice 
on  the  stage,  and,  I  think,  triumphantly  answered, 
in  the  negative.  Acting,  in  fact,  is  purely  an 
affair  of  the  imagination — the  actor  more  than 
any  other  artist  may  be  said  to  be  the  "  passion- 
winged  minister  of  thought." 

Children  are  born  actors.  They  lose  the  faculty 
only  when  the  wings  of  their  imagination  are 
weighted  by  self-consciousness.  It  is  not  every- 
one to  whom  is  given  the  capacity  of  always  re- 
maining a  child.  It  is  this  blessed  gift  of  receptive 
sensibility  which  it  should  be  the  endeavour  (the 
unconscious  endeavour  perhaps)  of  every  artist  to 
cultivate  and  to  retain. 

There  are  those  who  would  have  us  believe 
that  technique  is  the  end  and  aim  of  art.  There 
are  those  who  would  persuade  us  that  the  art  of 
acting  is  subject  to  certain  mathematical  laws, 
forgetting  that  these  laws  are  but  the  footnotes 

95 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

of  adroit  commentators,  and  in  no  sense  the  well- 
springs  of  art.  What  I  venture  to  assert  is  that 
all  that  is  most  essential,  most  luminous,  in  acting 
may  be  traced  to  the  imaginative  faculty.  It  is 
this  that  makes  the  actor's  calling  at  once  the  most 
simple  and  the  most  complex  of  all  the  arts.  It 
is  this  very  simplicity  which  has  caused  many  to 
deny  to  acting  a  place  among  the  arts,  and  which 
has  so  often  baffled  those  who  would  appraise  the 
art  of  acting  as  a  precise  science,  and  measure  it 
by  the  yard-measure  of  unimaginative  criticism. 
Yet  in  another  sense  no  art  is  more  complex  than 
the  dramatic  art  in  its  highest  expression,  for  in 
none  is  demanded  of  its  exponent  a  more  delicate 
poise,  a  subtler  instinct ;  none  is  more  dependent 
on  that  acute  state  of  the  imagination,  on  that 
divine  insanity  which  we  call  genius. 

The  actor  may  be  said  to  rank  with,  if  after, 
the  philosopher.  He,  like  the  philosopher,  is 
independent  of  recognised  laws.  The  histrionic 
art  is  indeed  essentially  a  self-governed  one.  Its 
laws  are  the  unwritten  laws  of  the  book  of  nature, 
illuminated  by  the  imagination. 

But  if  the  actor  can  claim  exemption  from 
academic  training,  it  would  be  idle  to  affirm  that 
he  is  independent  of  personal  attributes,  or  that 
he  can  reach  any  degree  of  eminence  without  those 
accomplishments  which  the  strenuous  exercise  of 
art  alone  can  give.     His  Pegasus,  however,  should 

96 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

be  tamed  in  the  broad  arena  of  the  stage  rather 
than  in  the  enervating  stable  of  the  Academy. 

In  acting,  in  fact,  there  is  an  infinity  to  learn, 
but  infinitely  little  that  can  be  taught.  The 
actor  must  be  capable,  of  course,  of  pronouncing 
his  native  language,  and  of  having  a  reasonable 
control  over  the  movements  of  his  limbs  ;  but, 
thus  equipped,  his  technical  education  is  prac- 
tically complete.  He  is  his  own  "  stock-in-trade." 
The  painter  has  his  pigments,  the  poet  his  pen,  the 
sculptor  his  clay,  the  musician  his  lute  ;  the  actor 
is  limited  to  his  personality — he  plays  upon  himself. 

To  give  free  range  to  the  imaginative  quality 
is  the  highest  accomplishment  of  the  actor.  He 
whose  imagination  is  most  untrammelled  is  he 
who  is  most  likely  to  touch  the  imagination  of 
an  audience.  To  arrive  at  this  emancipation  of 
the  mind  is  his  ultimate  and  highest  achievement. 
The  development  of  this  sensitive  or  receptive 
condition  into  the  creative  state  whereby  he  can 
rouse  the  imagination  of  his  hearers  depends 
largely  on  the  surrounding  influences  of  life.  A 
general  knowledge  of  men  and  things  is,  of  course, 
the  first  essential ;  but  I  doubt  whether  education, 
in  its  accepted  sense,  is  so  necessary  or  indeed 
desirable  in  an  artistic  career  as  it  is  in  what  I 
may  call  the  more  concrete  walks  of  life.  The 
midwife  of  science  is  sometimes  the  undertaker 
of  art. 

h  97 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

I  have  touched  upon  what,  in  its  restricting 
influence  on  the  imaginative  faculty,  I  have  called 
the  pernicious  habit  of  reading  books — a  practice 
which  in  its  too  free  indulgence  may  tend  to  fetter 
the  exercise  of  that  imagination  and  that  observa- 
tion of  life  which  are  so  essential  to  the  develop- 
ment of  the  artist.  Some  people  are  educated  by 
their  memories,  others  by  observation,  aided  by 
the  imagination.  One  man  will  be  able  by  a  look 
at  a  picture,  or  by  the  scanning  of  an  old  manu- 
script, to  project  himself  into  any  period  of  his- 
tory ;  while  another  will  by  laborious  unimagin- 
ative study  acquire  no  more  artistic  inspiration 
than  can  be  obtained  by  learning  the  "  Encyclo- 
paedia Britannica  "  by  heart.  Shakespeare  shows 
us  what  he  thinks  of  pedants  : 

"  Study  is  like  the  heaven's  glorious  sun, 

That  will  not  be  deep-searched  with  saucy  looks ; 
Small  have  continual  plodders  ever  won, 
Save  base  authority  from  others'  books." 

I  wonder  what  Bacon  would  have  said  to  this  !  I 
have  often  noticed  that  those  who  devote  their  spare 
energies  to  indiscriminate  reading  acquire  a  habit 
of  thinking  by  memory,  and  thus  gradually  lose  the 
faculty  which  the  spontaneous  observation  of  life 
tends  to  quicken.  Their  thought  becomes  artificial 
-—they  think  by  machinery — originality  loses  its 
muscle  ;  the  memory  is  developed  at  the  expense 
of  the  imagination.     Take  any  incident  of  every- 

98 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

day  life — to  the  man  who  is  not  in  the  habit  of 
exercising  his  imagination  it  will  appear  as  a 
vulgar  fact ;  to  him  who  sees  the  same  incident 
with  the  dramatic,  the  imaginative  eye,  it  will 
give  birth  to  an  original  thought,  which  is  often 
more  vital  than  a  quotation. 

The  education  of  the  artist,  then,  should  be 
directed  rather  to  the  development  of  the  imagina- 
tion than  to  the  cold  storage  of  memory.  For 
purposes  of  immediate  information  the  British 
Museum  is  always  open  to  him  ;  the  judges  of  the 
land  are  ever  ready  to  set  him  right  on  points  of 
law,  into  a  misapprehension  of  which  a  too  lively 
imagination  may  have  led  him. 

I  am  so  bold  as  to  think  that  a  University 
education,  which  is  so  helpful  to  success  in  other 
callings,  may  be  a  source  of  danger  to  the  artist. 
The  point  of  view  is  apt  to  become  academic, 
the  academic  to  degenerate  into  the  didactic — 
for  all  cliques,  even  the  most  illustrious,  have  a 
narrowing  tendency.  The  development  of  those 
qualities  which  are  so  favourable  to  distinction  in 
other  callings  may  tend  to  check  in  the  artist  that 
originality  which  is  so  essential  to  the  exercise 
of  our  fascinating,  if  fantastic,  calling.  I  main- 
tain that  such  surroundings,  and  the  influences  of 
a  too  prosperous  society,  may  tend  to  hinder  rather 
than  to  foster  the  growth  of  this  sensitive  plant, 
which    will    often    nourish    in    the   rude   winds    of 

99 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

adversity,  and  perish  in  the  scent-laden  salons  of 
fashion. 

To  argue  that  the  artist  should  shut  himself 
off  from  the  world,  and  wrap  himself  round  with 
a  mantle  of  dignified  ignorance,  would  of  course 
be  absurd.     I  have  already  said  that  a  knowledge 
of  men  and  things  is  essential  to  him,  and  this 
knowledge  is  manifestly  impossible  unless   he  be 
in  sympathetic  touch  with  his  generation,  for  we 
cannot  give  out  what  we  have  not  taken  in.     His 
should  be  the  bird's-eye  view.     But  the  allurements 
of  society  should  never  be  allowed  to  absorb  or 
enslave  him,  lest  after  sipping  its  enervating  narcotic 
he  should  drift  from  the  broad  stream  of  life  into  the 
sluggish  backwater  of  self-indulgence.     The  poet, 
like  the  soldier,  may  "  caper  nimbly  in  a  lady's 
chamber  to  the  lascivious  pleasing  of  a  lute,"  but  if 
he  dance  a  too  frequent  attendance  in  the  ante- 
chamber of  fashion,  the  jealous  muse  deserts  him, 
and  the  poet's  song  henceforth  finds  utterance  in 
the  lisping  treble  of  the  "  vers  de  societe"  and    a 
fitful  inspiration  in  the  chronicling  of  an  illustrious 
birth  or  a  serene  demise.     It  takes  a  genius  to 
survive   being   made   Poet  Laureate — indeed,  this 
official  reward  might  often  be  conferred  only  on 
the  poet  when  he  is  dead,  to  benefit  his  family 
and  to  point  out  the  beauties  of  his.  works  to  an 
otherwise  indifferent  posterity. 

Of  all  the  fetters  which  cramp  the  imagination, 

ioo 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

none  is  so  frequent  as  self-consciousness.  With 
many  of  us  this  failing  becomes  a  disease.  The 
actor  is  more  liable  to  its  attacks  than  any  other 
artist,  since  he  cannot  separate  his  personality  from 
his  work.  This  is  the  necessary  condition  under 
which  he  works  ;  he  cannot,  like  the  poet  or  the 
painter,  choose  his  mood — he  is  the  slave  of  the 
moment.  Under  what  disadvantages  would  a 
painter  work  if  his  patron  were  standing  at  his 
elbow  watching  each  stroke  of  his  brush  ! 

It  is  only  when  the  mind  of  the  actor  is  emanci- 
pated from  the  trammels  of  his  surroundings  that 
his  imagination  is  allowed  full  play.  The  nervous- 
ness which  afflicts  him  in  his  first  performance  of 
a  new  role  will  often  paralyse  his  imagination  ; 
though  it  is  true  that  the  dependence  on  this 
imaginative  faculty  varies  in  individuals. 

I  remember  a  first  night  some  years  ago  when 
I  was  reduced  to  a  state  of  mental  and  physical 
pulp  ;  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  the  brilliant  and 
witty  author  entered  the  green-room  of  the  theatre. 
"  Well,  and  how  did  I  get  on  ?  "  I  asked,  hungry 
for  encouragement.  Scanning  my  trembling  and 
perspiring  form,  the  author  observed  :  "I  see  your 
skin  has  been  acting,  at  all  events." 

This  self-consciousness,  which  will  often  hinder 
rather  than  stimulate  the  nervous  energy,  is,  I 
think,  a  curiously  English  characteristic,  and  is 
due  in  many  instances  as  much  to  early  training 

IOI 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

as  to  an  inborn  tendency.  Our  Irish  brothers — 
or  should  I  say  cousins  ? — owing  to  the  posses- 
sion of  a  more  untrammelled  imagination,  are  not 
nearly  so  subject  to  its  influence.  It  is  this  happy 
superiority  to  public  opinion  that  renders  the 
average  Irishman  such  a  fluent  orator.  Most 
good  actors  have  either  Irish  or  Jewish  blood. 
To  the  average  Irishman  is  given  the  faculty  of 
seeing  the  incidents  of  life  with  a  dramatic  eye, 
and  he  has  an  infinitely  greater  facility  in  clothing 
them  in  picturesque  language.  In  him  the  journal- 
istic instinct  is  strongly  developed.  A  somewhat 
bloodless  battle  was  fought  during  the  Egyptian 
war — the  battle  of  Tel-el-Kebir.  A  newspaper 
discussion  arose  as  to  the  pronunciation  of  this 
word.  The  question  was  whether  it  should  be 
pronounced  according  to  the  frenzied  patriotism 
of  the  Irish  war  correspondent : 

"  There  they  plied  the  bloody  sabre 
On  thy  plains,  oh  Tel-el-Kebir  1  " 

or  whether,  as  the  less  impassioned  and  less 
imaginative  Saxon  might  put  it : 

"  The  fighting  was  not  too  severe 
Upon  thy  plains,  Tel-el-Kebir ! " 

In  order  to  emancipate  the  mind  from  this 
self-consciousness — in  order,  in  fact,  to  be  at  his 
best — the  actor  will  sometimes  have  recourse  to 
stimulants.     This   habit   has   proved   the   ruin    of 

1 02 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

many  a  great  actor.  In  his  effort  to  reach  that 
tingling  condition  of  the  nervous  system  which 
enables  him,  in  forgetting  himself,  to  impress  his 
audience,  the  actor  may  find  the  grave  of  his 
career.  Two  homely  instances  of  the  futility  of 
this  endeavour  to  conquer  self-consciousness  by 
artificial  means  have  come  within  my  knowledge. 
The  first  came  to  me  at  second  hand  through  an 
acquaintance,  himself  a  most  respectable,  not  to 
say  eminent,  member  of  society,  whose  boon  com- 
panion of  his  college  days  was  an  extremely  well 
regulated  but  highly  intellectual  youth,  to  whom 
the  one  stumbling-block  in  life  was  that  he 
could  not  rid  himself  of  an  overpowering  self- 
consciousness.  This  cast  a  gloom  over  his 
whole  life,  and  prevented  him  from  playing  a 
convivial  part  at  those  functions  which  I  believe 
are  called  "  Wines  " — occasions  on  which  under- 
graduate youth  scale  those  higher  altitudes  of 
poetic  sentiment,  and  plumb  those  lower  depths 
of  philosophic  pessimism,  which  vary  with  the 
fluctuations  of  the  alcoholic  barometer.  He  com- 
plained that  even  on  these  uproarious  occasions 
his  self-consciousness  was  ever  present,  reproach- 
ing him  for  the  reprehensible  condition  which  he 
vainly  strove  to  attain.  There  he  sat,  a  perennial 
skeleton  at  the  feast.  My  friend  suggested  that 
on  the  very  next  opportunity  which  offered  itself 
he   should    by   a   painstaking   assimilation   of   the 

103 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

grape  make  one  herculean  effort  to  rid  himself  of 
that  chronic  self-consciousness  which  weighed  so 
heavily  upon  him.  The  well-regulated  youth  gave 
his  word  of  honour  that  he  would  yield  himself 
to  the  wildest  debauchery.  And  he  did.  That 
very  night  he  joined  in  the  revels  of  his  intellectual 
inferiors.  My  friend  awaited  his  return  in  anxious 
expectation.  At  4  a.m.  he  heard  a  noise  as  of 
someone  falling  upstairs,  and  soon  his  companion 
appeared  in  the  doorway  in  an  advanced  state  of 
alcoholic  decomposition.  "  Alas  !  "  said  he,  "  my 
legs  are  drunk,  my  tongue  is  drunk,  but  I  haven't 
lost  my  self-coshiousness." 

The  other  instance  was  that  of  an  actor.  In 
the  scene  between  Othello  and  Brabantio,  Bra- 
bantio  was  being  played  by  an  old  actor  of  the 
sound  and  furious  school,  who  was  strangely 
uncertain  in  his  movements  as  well  as  in  the 
words  of  his  part.  He  had  reached  the  well- 
known  injunction  to  Othello  : 

"  Look  to  her,  Moor,  if  thou  hast  eyes  to  see  ; 
She  has  deceiv'd  her  father,  and  may  thee," 

which  he  stuttered  forth  thus — 

"  Look  after  her,  Othello,  keep  your  eye  on  her  ; 
She  has  made  a  fool  of  her  father  and  may  do  the 
same  to  yon." 

He  staggered  off  the  stage,  and,  weeping 
bitterly,  fell  into  the  arms  of  an  actor.      "  Young 

104 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

man,"  he  said,  "  let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you.  I  have 
been  on  the  stage  for  forty-five  years,  and  this  is 
the  first  time  I  have  ever  suffered  from  stage  fright." 

I  have  endeavoured  to  show  how  the  imagina- 
tive faculty  in  acting  may  be  cramped  by  self- 
consciousness,  and  how  susceptible  it  is  to  social 
and  other  influences  which  surround  the  life  of  the 
artist.  In  the  same  way  it  is  also  susceptible  of 
infinite  cultivation  if  left  to  its  own  devices. 

I  am  willing  to  admit  that  every  artist  works 
according  to  his  own  method  ;  but  I  maintain 
that  that  art  is  likely  to  produce  the  greatest  effect 
which  is  least  reliant  on  what  are  called  the  canons 
of  art ;  that  is  to  say,  that  art  is  the  more  vital 
which  springs  spontaneously  from  the  yielding  up 
of  the  artist  to  his  imagination.  I  have  known 
actors  who  frequently  arrive  at  many  of  their  best 
effects  through  patient  study  ;  indeed,  I  believe, 
great  actors  have  been  known  to  study  each  gesture 
before  a  looking-glass.  This  seems  to  me,  never- 
theless, a  mistaken  system,  and  one  certainly 
which  would  be  destructive  to  the  effects  of  those 
who  prefer  to  rely  on  the  mood  of  the  moment. 
That  genius  is  best  which  may  be  described  as  an 
infinite  capacity  for  not  having  to  take  pains. 

Another  aspect  of  our  art  which  has  of  late  been 
much  debated  is  whether  it  is  desirable  that  the 

io5 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

actor  should  or  should  not  sink  his  individuality 
in  the  part  he  is  playing  ;  whether,  in  fact,  the 
actor  should  be  absorbed  in  his  work,  or  the  work 
be  absorbed  in  the  actor.  It  seems  to  me,  in  spite 
of  all  that  certain  writers  are  never  tired  of  dinning 
into  our  ears,  that  the  higher  aim  of  the  artist  is 
so  to  project  his  imagination  into  the  character 
he  is  playing  that  his  own  individuality  becomes 
merged  in  his  assumption.  This  indeed  is  the 
very  essence  of  the  art  of  acting. 

I  remember  that  when  I  first  went  upon  the 
stage  I  was  told  that  to  obtain  any  popular  success 
an  actor  must  be  always  himself,  that  the  public 
even  like  to  recognise  the  familiar  voice  before  he 
appears  on  the  scene,  that  he  should,  if  possible, 
confine  himself  to  what  was  called  "  one  line  of 
business,"  and  that  he  should  seek  to  cultivate  a 
certain  mannerism  which  should  be  the  badge 
of  his  individuality.  Surely,  this  is  an  entirely 
erroneous  and  mischievous  doctrine ! 

Indeed,  I  will  go  so  far  as  to  maintain  that 
the  highest  expression  in  every  branch  of  art  has 
always  been  the  impersonal.  The  greatest  artist 
that  ever  lived  was  the  most  impersonal,  he  was 
the  most  impersonal  because  the  most  imaginative. 
I  mean  our  own  Shakespeare.  Where  do  we  find 
him  in  his  work  ?  The  spirit,  the  style  everywhere 
— but  the  man  ?  Nowhere — except  in  the  sense 
le  style  e'est  Vhomme. 

106 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

Take  Othello,  for  instance,  the  finest  perhaps,  in  a 
dramatic  sense,  of  all  his  stage-plays.  If  we  think 
we  have  found  him  in  the  noble  outbursts  of  the 
Moor,  in  the  overmastering  passion  of  the  simple- 
minded  warrior,  we  lose  him  immediately  in  the  in- 
tellectual sympathy  which  he  seems  to  lavish  on  the 
brutal  cynicism  of  the  subtle  and  brilliant  Iago. 
In  one  moment  he  soars  to  the  very  heights  of 
poetic  ecstasy,  in  the  next  he  descends  with  equal 
ease  and  apparent  zest  into  the  depths  of  sottish 
animalism.  We  find  him  in  the  melodious  wail  of 
Hamlet,  we  lose  him  in  the  hoggish  grunts  of  Falstaff . 

What  sort  of  a  man  Shakespeare  was  we  none 
of  us  know.  We  are  led  to  believe  that  he  was 
an  excellent  business  man,  with  a  taste  for  agricul- 
ture. In  his  work  he  becomes  effaced — his  spirit 
is  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp.  His  mind  is  like  the 
Irishman's  flea — "  you  no  sooner  put  your  ringer 
upon  him,  but  ye  find  he  isn't  there."  His 
was  essentially  a  plastic  mind — he  was  capable  of 
entering  into  the  thoughts  of  all  men,  and  made 
their  point  of  view  his  own.  Nowhere  did  he  insist 
on  his  personal  predilections — he  was,  in  fact,  the 
artist — the  creator — he  looked  upon  mankind  with 
all  the  impartiality  of  a  god,  he  laid  their  hearts 
bare  with  the  imperturbability  of  an  inspired 
vivisector. 

The  abiding  hold  which  the  play  of  Hamlet  has 
exercised  over  so  many  successive  generations  is 

107 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

mainly  due  to  its  wondrous  mystery  which  holds 
the  imagination  of  an  audience  enthralled,  for,  in 
the  conventional  sense,  it  cannot  be  said  to  be  a 
pattern  stage-play.  In  what  a  masterful  fashion 
is  the  keynote  of  mystery  struck  in  the  very  first 
scene  on  the  ramparts  !  From  the  moment  when 
the  solitary  soldier  calls  through  the  night,  "  Who's 
there  ?  "  the  imagination  of  the  audience  is  held 
spellbound ;  with  such  marvellous  power  is  it 
played  upon  by  the  dramatist  that  from  the  first 
scene  a  modern  sceptical  audience  accepts  the 
supernatural  basis  of  the  play.  Much  inspired 
nonsense  has  been  written  on  the  subject  of  Hamlet 
by  unimaginative  commentators.  Yet  to  him 
who  will  approach  Shakespeare's  masterpiece  in 
the  right  spirit,  it  will  be  seen  to  have  that  sim- 
plicity which  is  characteristic  of  all  great  works. 

Nearly  all  the  mad  doctors  have  diagnosed 
Hamlet's  case,  and  nearly  all  claim  him  as  their 
own.  This  is  the  tendency  of  the  specialist.  It 
is  rather  a  question,  I  think,  as  to  the  sanity  of 
Hamlet's  commentators.  An  astounding  instance 
of  this  super-subtlety — (in  itself  a  symptom  of 
madness) — is  shown  in  the  comments  of  some  of 
the  German  critics.  One  of  these  gravely  informs 
us  that  the  passage,  "  You  know  sometimes  he 
walks  for  hours  here  in  the  lobby,"  proves  beyond 
a  doubt  that  Hamlet  was  really  a  fat  man,  for,  in 
order  to  reduce  his  obesity,  he  took  four  hours' 

1 08 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

regular  exercise  in  the  lobby  ;  but  perhaps  our 
German  friend  was  a  specialist  in  banting.  Another 
critic,  Leo  by  name,  supplies  a  still  more  mar- 
vellous instance  of  painstaking  misunderstanding 
of  the  obvious  in  his  elucidation  of  Hamlet's 
hysterical  outburst  at  the  conclusion  of  the  play- 
scene.  In  this,  some  actors  use  the  word  peacock, 
and  others  pajock,  signifying  toad.  But  our  critic 
throws  a  new  light  upon  the  passage  which  may 
commend  itself  to  some  realistic  Hamlet  of  the 
future.  The  word  in  dispute  was,  says  Leo, 
really  '  hiccup,"  which  was  intended  as  a  stage 
direction.  Our  genial  wiseacre  argues  that 
Hamlet  intended  to  call  the  King  an  ass,  and 
'  ass  "  certainly  rhymes  with  '  was."  The  pas- 
sage,  he  contends,  should  read  thus  : 

"  For  thou  dost  know,  oh  Damon  dear, 
This  realm  dismantled  was 
Of  Jove  himself,  and  now  reigns  here 
A  very — very — (hiccups)." 

Hamlet's  indignation  is  apparently  too  deep  for 
words — the  very  height  of  tragic  emotion  finds 
expression  in  a  hiccup  !  The  unimaginativeness 
of  the  critic  is  in  this  case  absolutely  monu- 
mental. 

In  Macbeth  we  have  another  instance  of  the 
astounding  imaginativeness  of  Shakespeare.  The 
test  of  the  greatness  of  a  work  is  that  it  is  not  only 

109 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

great  in  itself,  but  that  it  is  the  cause  of  greatness 
in  others.  A  very  striking  instance  of  this  sug- 
gestive fecundity  of  the  poet  was  told  me  of  Mrs. 
Siddons  in  her  playing  of  the  sleep-walking  scene. 
At  the  words  '  All  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  will 
not  sweeten  this  little  hand,"  the  conscience- 
stricken  woman  sees  with  her  mind's  eye  a  stain 
upon  her  hand,  and,  raising  it  to  her  mouth, 
desperately  sucks  the  imaginary  blood  from  it, 
spitting  it  out  as  she  does  so.  The  daring  of  this 
piece  of  realism,  which  might  strike  the  common- 
place as  vulgar,  was  in  reality  a  stroke  of  imagina- 
tive genius,  and,  I  am  told,  produced  an  electrical 
effect  upon  the  audience. 

In  dramatic  literature  that  work  is  highest 
which  is  most  suggestive,  which  gives  to  the  artist 
as  to  the  spectator  most  opportunities  of  weaving 
round  the  work  of  the  poet  the  embroidery  of  his 
own  imagination: 

If  I  may  instance  a  modern  play,  I  should  say 
that  this  quality  is  displayed  in  an  eminent 
degree  in  Ibsen's  work  The  Master  Builder.  We 
know  that  this  play  is  condemned  by  some  as  a 
flagrant  outrage  of  conventional  form,  while  others 
dismiss  it  as  a  commonplace  presentation  of  a 
commonplace  theme.  I  must  confess  that,  judged 
by  Ibsen's  plays,  Scandinavia,  in  its  sordid 
suburbanism,  seems  to  me  an  undesirable  abiding- 
no 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

place.  All  the  more  wonderful  is  it  that  the 
magician  should  have  been  able  to  conjure  up 
from  this  dank  soil,  which  would  appear  congenial 
only  to  mushroom-growths,  such  wondrous  and 
variegated  plants.  In  witnessing  this  play  we  are 
moved  by  its  power,  we  are  fascinated  by  its  origin- 
ality. Few  fail  to  feel  the  thud  of  its  pulse.  Each 
weaves  his  own  version  of  its  message.  The  master 
has  gained  his  end  ;  he  has  stirred  the  imagination 
of  his  audience ;  he  alone  remains  sphinx-like, 
unexplained  ;   he  is  the  artist — wise  master  ! 

In  using  Shakespeare  as  an  illustration  of  the 
highest  development  of  the  imaginative  artist, 
and  in  claiming  for  his  work  that  impersonality 
which  I  hold  to  be  the  distinguishing  mark  of 
his  genius,  I  am  far  from  denying  that  many  of 
our  greatest  writers,  many  of  our  greatest  painters 
and  actors,  have  been  those  whose  personality  is 
most  resonant  in  their  work,  but  I  say  that  the 
intrusion  of  that  personality  is  not  the  merit  of 
their  work,  but  rather  its  limitation. 

No  doubt  a  more  easily  won  popularity  is 
awarded  by  that  large  public  which  demands  an 
exhibition  of  individuality  rather  than  of  character- 
isation, of  personality  rather  than  of  imperson- 
ation ;  yet  it  is  better  to  strive  for  the  higher, 
even  if  we  miss  it,  than  to  clutch  at  the  lower, 
even  if  it  be  within  easy  reach. 

in 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

The  adroit  actor  should  be  able  at  will  to  adapt 
his  individuality  to  the  character  he  is  portraying. 
By  the  aid  of  his  imagination  he  becomes  the  man, 
and  behaves  unconsciously  as  the  man  would  or 
should  behave  ;  this  he  does  instinctively  rather 
than  from  any  conscious  study,  for  what  does  not 
come  spontaneously  may  as  well  not  come  at  all. 
Even  the  physical  man  will  appear  transformed. 
If  he  imagine  himself  a  tall  man,  he  will  appear 
so  to  the  audience — how  often  have  we  not  heard 
people  exclaim  that  an  orator  appeared  to  grow 
in  height  as  his  speech  became  eloquent  ?  If  the 
actor  imagine  himself  a  fat  man  he  will  appear 
fat  to  the  spectator.  There  is  a  kind  of  artistic 
conspiracy  between  the  actor  and  his  audience. 
It  is  not  the  outer  covering,  called  the  "  make 
up,"  which  causes  this  impression  ;  it  is  the  inner 
man — who  talks  fat,  walks  fat,  and  thinks  fat. 
The  actor,  even  though  he  be  peasant  born,  will 
be  able  by  the  power  of  his  imagination  to  acquire 
the  rare  gift  of  distinction.  He  will  be  able,  by 
its  aid  to  become  a  king — not  the  accidental  king, 
who  in  actual  life  may  lack  dignity,  but  the  king 
of  our  imagination. 

It  is  on  record  that  Napoleon  once  administered 
a  rebuke  to  Talma,  with  whom  he  had  a  dramatic 
affinity.  The  actor,  it  seems,  in  playing  a  Roman 
emperor,  made  violent  gestures.  Napoleon,  criti- 
cising this  exuberance,  said,  "  Why  use  these  un- 

112 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

necessary  flourishes  ?  When  I  give  an  order  I 
require  nothing  to  enforce  it — my  word  is  enough. 
This  is  no  way  to  behave  as  an  emperor."  The 
first  Napoleon  was  a  great  actor,  and  his 
dramatic  instinct  was  not  the  least  formidable 
among  those  qualities  which  made  him  such  a 
power  in  the  world's  history. 

As  on  the  stage,  so  it  is  in  real  life  ;  we  are 
not  what  we  are — we  become  what  we  imagine 
ourselves  to  be.  A  man  is  not  always  what  he 
appears  to  his  valet.  He  often  finds  his  truest 
expression  in  his  work.  A  great  man  will  often 
appear  uninteresting  and  commonplace  in  real 
life.  Who  has  not  felt  that  disappointment  ? 
The  real  man  is  to  be  found  in  his  work. 

It  is  this  personality  which  is  often  obliterated 
by  his  biographer,  for  detraction  is  the  only 
tribute  which  mediocrity  can  pay  to  the  great. 
This  literary  autopsy  adds  a  new  terror  to  death. 
A  man  might  be  permitted  to  leave  his  reputation  to 
his  critics,  as  he  would  leave  his  brains  to  a  hospital. 

Napoleon  was  able  to  imagine  himself  an 
emperor,  and,  circumstances  conspiring  with  him, 
he  became  one.  His  enemies  thought  they  were 
belittling  him  by  calling  him  an  actor,  and  the 
Pope,  whose  temporalities  he  seized,  could  only 
retort  "  Comediante  "  ;  but  the  comedian  con- 
tinued to  play  his  part  of  emperor  while  the  Tope 
was  in  exile. 

I  113 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

The  artistic  methods  of  the  first  Napoleon  arc 
brought  into  strong  relief  when  contrasted  with 
those  of  his  less  imaginative  nephew.  Indeed,  the 
difference  between  the  imaginative  and  the  un- 
imaginative actor  is  well  exemplified  in  these  two. 
Had  Napoleon  the  Third  possessed  the  true  dramatic 
instinct,  he  would  not  have  been  guilty  of  the 
Boulogne  fiasco.  To  impress  the  populace  with 
the  supernatural  significance  of  his  mission,  he 
had  recourse  to  the  stagy  device  of  a  tame  eagle, 
which,  as  the  emblem  of  empire,  was  at  a  given 
cue  to  alight  upon  him.  But  the  bird,  which 
had  been  trained  to  perch  upon  his  top-hat,  dis- 
dained his  crown.  Here  we  have  an  illustration 
of  the  futility  of  unimaginative  stage-manage- 
ment. 

The  imagination  is  the  mind's  eye.  To  him 
who  has  it  not,  life  presents  itself  as  a  picture 
possessing  all  the  merits  of  a  photograph,  and 
none  of  the  blemishes  of  a  work  of  art.  He  who 
does  not  treasure  it  will  lose  its  use. 

Certain  lower  forms  of  animals  have  what 
closely  resembles  a  third  eye  in  the  middle  of  their 
skulls,  and  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  this 
auxiliary  eye  was  used  by  our  prehistoric  ancestors 
for  the  purpose  of  seeing  objects  overhead.  The 
Cyclops  was  probably  a  throwback  of  this  species. 

In  the  lower  forms  of  animals,  I  am  told — 
in  lizards,  for  instance — this  eye  is  infinitely  more 

114 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

developed  than  it  is  in  the  higher  animals,  in  whom, 
from  disuse,  it  has  become  practically  extinct. 
Even  so  will  the  imagination,  this  third  eye  of  the 
mind,  looking  heavenward,  lose  its  function  unless 
it  be  exercised.  The  waning  of  the  imagination 
is,  next  to  the  loss  of  his  childish  faith,  the  most 
tragic  thing  in  a  man's  life.  I  can  conceive  no 
fate  more  terrible  than  that  which  befalls  the 
artist  in  watching,  with  still  undiminished  powers 
of  self-observation,  the  slow  ebbing  of  the  imagina- 
tive faculty ;  to  see  it  drifting  out  to  sea  in  the 
twilight  of  life.  Better  be  deprived  of  sight  than 
to  feel  that  the  world  has  lost  its  beauty — for  the 
blind  are  happier  than  the  blear-eyed. 

A  passage  in  Darwin's  "  Autobiography  "  seems 
to  me  a  pathetic  illustration,  and  is  interesting  in 
its  unflinching  self-analysis. 

"  .  .  .  .  I  am  not  conscious  of  any  change 
in  my  mind  during  the  last  thirty  years,  excepting 
in  one  point  presently  to  be  mentioned  ;  nor,  in- 
deed, could  any  change  have  been  expected,  unless 
one  of  general  deterioration.  But  my  father  lived 
to  his  eighty-third  year  with  his  mind  as  lively  as 
ever  it  was,  and  all  his  faculties  undimmed  ;  and 
I  hope  that  I  may  die  before  my  mind  fails  to  a 
sensible  extent.  .  .  .  Up  to  the  age  of  thirty, 
or  beyond  it,  poetry  of  many  kinds — such  as  the 
works  of  Milton,  Gray,  Byron,  Wordsworth,  Cole- 
ridge, and  Shelley — gave  me  great  pleasure,  and 

"5 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

even  as  a  schoolboy  I  took  intense  delight  in 
Shakespeare,  especially  in  the  historical  plays.  I 
have  also  said  that  formerly  pictures  gave  me 
considerable,  and  music  very  great,  delight.  But 
now  for  many  years  I  cannot  endure  to  read  a 
line  of  poetry  :  I  have  tried  to  read  Shakespeare, 
and  found  it  so  intolerably  dull  that  it  nauseated 
me.  I  have  also  lost  my  taste  for  pictures  and 
music.  Music  generally  set  me  thinking  too  ener- 
getically on  what  I  have  been  at  work  on,  instead 
of  giving  me  pleasure.  I  retain  some  taste  for  fine 
scenery,  but  it  does  not  cause  me  the  exquisite 
delight  which  it  formerly  did.  On  the  other  hand, 
novels,  which  are  works  of  the  imagination,  though 
not  of  a  very  high  order,  have  been  for  years  a 
wonderful  relief  and  pleasure  to  me,  and  I  often 
bless  all  novelists.  A  surprising  number  have  been 
read  aloud  to  me,  and  I  like  all  if  moderately  good, 
and  if  they  do  not  end  unhappily — against  which 
a  law  ought  to  be  passed.  A  novel,  according  to 
my  taste,  does  not  come  into  the  first  class  unless 
it  contains  some  person  whom  one  can  thoroughly 
love — and  if  a  pretty  woman,  all  the  better.  .  .  . 
This  curious  and  lamentable  loss  of  the  higher 
aesthetic  tastes  is  all  the  odder,  as  books  on  history, 
biographies,  and  travels  (independently  of  any 
scientific  facts  which  they  may  contain),  and  essays 
on  all  sorts  of  subjects,  interest  me  as  much  as 
ever  they  did.     My  mind  seems  to  have  become  a 

116 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

kind  of  machine  for  grinding  general  laws  out  of 
large  collections  of  facts,  but  why  this  should 
have  caused  the  atrophy  of  that  part  of  the  brain 
alone,  on  which  the  higher  tastes  depend,  I  cannot 
conceive.  A  man  with  a  mind  more  highly  organ- 
ised or  better  constituted  than  mine  would  not,  I 
suppose,  have  thus  suffered  ;  and,  if  I  had  to  live 
my  life  again,  I  would  have  made  a  rule  to  read 
some  poetry  and  listen  to  some  music  at  least  once 
every  week  ;  for  perhaps  the  parts  of  my  brain 
now  atrophied  would  thus  have  been  kept  active 
through  use.  The  loss  of  these  tastes  is  a  loss  of 
happiness,  and  may  possibly  be  injurious  to  the 
intellect,  and  more  probably  to  the  moral  char- 
acter, by  enfeebling  the  emotional  part  of  our 
nature.     .     .     ." 

It  would  be  interesting  to  know  whether  the 
cultivation  of  the  aesthetic  faculties  would  have 
strengthened  or  weakened  in  Darwin  those  other 
forces  which  have  made  him  such  a  shining  figure 
in  the  history  of  science.  It  may  be  that  what 
was  a  loss  to  the  man  was  a  gain  to  humanity,  for 
to  everyone  is  vouchsafed  only  a  limited  power  of 
concentration. 

Nor  must  it  be  supposed  that  Science  and  Art 
are  separate  and  opposing  forces  ;  they  are  rather 
two  mighty  currents  springing  from  one  parent 
source.     The   greatest   victories   which   mind   has 

117 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

achieved  over  matter  have  been  due  to  the  soaring 
flights  of  the  imagination  rather  than  to  a  mere 
crawling  research  along  the  surface  of  facts. 

This  hall,  wherein  Faraday,  Huxley,  and  Tyndall 
have  spoken,  has  witnessed  displays  of  the  imagina- 
tion equal  to  those  of  the  highest  poetry.  As  the 
diver  dives  for  pearls  into  the  depths  of  the  sea, 
so  does  science  project  itself  on  the  wings  of  the 
imagination  into  the  mists  which  shroud  the  vast 
unexplained,  snatching  in  its  flight  the  secrets 
which  solve  the  mysteries  of  the  universe,  and 
pointing  out  to  mankind  the  invisible  stepping- 
stones  connecting  the  known  with  the  unknown. 
It  was  in  this  hall  that  Professor  Dewar  sum- 
moned the  elusive  and  invisible  atmosphere,  which 
since  all  time  has  enveloped  the  earth,  and  with 
the  wand  of  science  compelled  it  to  appear  before 
you  in  a  palpable  and  visible  form.  Even  so  does 
the  imagination  distil  from  the  elemental  ether  of 
thought  and  truth  the  liquid  air  of  art. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  show  that,  just  as  the 
highest  achievement  of  science  is  that  which  we 
owe  to  the  imagination,  so  also  is  the  highest 
achievement  of  art  that  which  carries  us  out  of 
the  sordid  surroundings  of  everyday  life  into  the 
realms  of  idealised  truth.  Art's  loftiest  mission  is 
to  preserve  for  us,  amid  the  din  and  clash  of  life, 
those  illusions  which  are  its  better  part — to  epitom- 
ise for  us  the  aspirations  of  mankind,  to  stifle  its 

118 


The  Imaginative  Faculty 

sobs,  to  nurse  its  wounds,  to  requite  its  unrequited 
love,  to  sing  its  lullaby  of  death.  It  is  the  unwept 
tear  of  the  criminal,  it  is  the  ode  of  the  agnostic 
to  immortality,  it  is  the  toy  of  childhood,  the 
fairyland  of  the  mature,  and  gilds  old  age  with 
the  afterglow  of  youth. 


HAMLET    FROM    AN    ACTOR'S 
PROMPT    BOOK 


HAMLET  FROM  AN  ACTOBL'S 
PROMPT  BOOK 


1895. 

TT  seems  somewhat  bold  to  attempt  to  say  any- 
*  thing  fresh  about  Hamlet — a  subject  upon 
which  more  wise  and  more  foolish  things  have  been 
spoken  than  upon  any  theme  within  the  scope  of 
English  literature.  Indeed,  it  is  only  by  ignor- 
ing the  vast  voluminosity  of  learned  speculation 
and  ingenious  comment  that  I  dare  hope  to  put 
forward  that  which  alone  can  excuse  my  temerity 
— a  new  point  of  view.  My  point  of  view  is  that 
of  the  actor,  and  in  this  declaration  I  trust  I 
shall  not  be  held  guilty  of  a  too  fantastic  pre- 
sumption, for  were  not  Shakespeare  and  Hamlet 
both  actors  ?  I  purpose,  then,  to  approach  this 
most  debated  of  Shakespeare's  masterpieces  through 
the   despised   medium   of   practical   experience — I 

123 


Hamlet 

propose,  in  fact,  to  attempt  to  remove  the  seem- 
ing inconsistencies  of  Hamlet's  character  with  the 
aid  of  an  actor's  prompt  copy. 

Hamlet  is  not  only  literature — it  is  drama. 
Hamlet  himself  is  human  or  he  is  nothing.  It  is 
in  the  living  humanity  which  animates  his  whole 
being  that  the  unequalled  attractiveness  of  this 
great  creation  lies.  It  is  because  Hamlet  is 
eternally  human  that  the  play  retains  its  lasting 
hold  on  our  sympathies.  We  are  all  potential 
Hamlets. 

And  who  more  than  the  actor,  in  the  white 
heat  of  passion,  can  explore  the  giddy  heights 
and  latent  tracts  of  Shakespeare's  masterpiece  ? 
He  has  the  privilege — a  privilege  which  alone 
would  make  his  life  an  enviable  one — of  speaking 
those  noble  words,  of  being  for  the  time  translated 
into  the  higher  region  of  the  great  poet's  greatest 
imaginings  ;  of  soaring  on  the  wings  of  passion 
into  the  rapt  heaven  of  poetic  fantasy  ;  of  ex- 
periencing personally,  in  the  portrayal  of  Hamlet, 
his  youthful  aspirations,  his  scorn  of  the  insolence 
of  office,  and,  perchance,  his  love  for  the  fair  Ophelia. 

Like  all  great  works,  Hamlet  is  distinguished 
by  simplicity  ;  he  who  will  approach  this  subject 
with  the  mind  of  a  child  will  see  clearly — it  is 
only  when  we  look  at  Hamlet  as  through  the  blurred 

124 


Hamlet 

microscope  of  super-subtlety  that  it  becomes  a 
nebular  hypothesis.  It  is  the  first  duty  of  the 
actor,  in  his  interpretation  of  the  tragedy,  to  bring 
home  the  poet's  meaning.  Of  course,  each  is 
bounded  by  his  own  personality,  by  the  limitation 
of  his  own  mental  horizon. 

The  question  as  to  whether  Hamlet  was  mad 
or  feigning  madness  has  vexed  the  minds  and  spoilt 
the  tempers  of  countless  writers.  They  have  not 
the  suppleness  of  mind  to  understand  that  a  man 
may  have  many  facets — that  he  may  be  everything 
by  turns,  and  everything  sincerely — "  A  pipe  for 
Fortune's  finger  to  sound  what  stop  she  pleases." 
Here  is  a  young  prince  of  lofty  ideals,  whose  natural 
refinement  of  mind  has  been  cultivated  at  the 
University  of  Wittenberg.  His  sensitive  nature 
shrinks  from  the  contemplation  of  the  boorish  court 
where  he  is  as  much  out  of  place  as  a  jewelled 
ring  in  a  hog's  snout.  He  returns  to  Denmark 
to  find  a  riotous  rabble  merrymaking  over  the 
nuptials  of  his  own  mother  with  his  father's  brother. 
He  sees  this  hiccoughing  monarch  sitting  on  his 
honoured  father's  throne,  and  reeling  towards  his 
mother's  bed.  What  wonder  that  the  world  seems 
to  him  "  an  unweeded  garden  that  grows  to  seed, 
things  rank  and  gross  in  nature  "  !  Hamlet 
sickens  at  the  sight — the  flood  of  grief  at  the  loss 
of  his  beloved  father  and  of  loathing  of  the  fickle- 
ness of    his  mother  engulfs,  for  the  moment,  his 

125 


Hamlet 

tender  passion  for  the  fair  Ophelia — and  he  gives 
vent  to  his  feelings  in  an  outburst  on  the  frailty 
of  woman. 

Hamlet  learns  from  Horatio  and  his  companions 
of  the  apparition  of  his  father's  spirit.  His  pro- 
phetic soul  already  presages  foul  play,  and 
through  the  fog  of  his  suspicions  now  rises  the 
blood-red  sun  of  revenge.  Up  to  this  point 
Hamlet  has  been  a  perfectly  sane  and  rational 
young  man.  In  the  meeting  with  the  Ghost, 
again,  there  is  nothing  abnormal  in  his  attitude — 
he  is  overcome  with  awe  on  beholding  his  father's 
spirit  in  arms,  and  is  prepared  to  follow  him 
regardless  of  perils.  In  the  second  Ghost-scene 
Hamlet  is  overwhelmed  with  grief  and  indignation 
on  learning  of  the  infamy  by  which  his  father 
met  his  death.  To  the  actor  this  is  a  scene  of 
intense  and  prolonged  excitement,  more  exhaust- 
ing, because  pent  up,  than  perhaps  any  passage 
in  the  whole  play.  I  have  sometimes  asked  myself, 
with  that  second  consciousness  of  the  actor, 
whether  thus  to  waste  one's  vital  force  could  have 
any  compensating  effect  upon  the  audience,  for 
Hamlet's  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  Ghost,  his  face  is 
averted  from  the  public,  and  probably  the  actor's 
excitement  is  lost  upon  them.  But,  nevertheless, 
I  conclude  that  it  is  necessary  for  the  actor  to 
undergo  this  strain  of  self-excitation  in  order  to 
reach  that  condition  of  hysteria  which  overcomes 

126 


Hamlet 

Hamlet  after  the  Ghost's  departure.  Here  again 
Hamlet,  it  seems  to  me,  behaves  just  as  any  highly 
wrought  young  man  would  behave  on  hearing  of 
the  terrible  fate  which  had  befallen  a  beloved  father. 
He  is  all  on  fire  to  sweep  to  his  revenge  with  wings 
as  swift  as  meditation  or  the  thoughts  of  love. 
But  the  fire  is  too  fierce — it  perforce  burns  itself 
out.  And  here  the  actor  should  make  clear  to  the 
audience  that  physical  exhaustion  prevents  Hamlet 
from  carrying  out  the  impulse  of  his  mind — the 
weakened  physical  machine  is,  as  it  were,  unequal 
to  respond  to  the  promptings  of  the  mind.  Hamlet 
cries  : 

"  O,  all  you  host  of  heaven  1     O,  earth !  what  else  ? 
And  shall   I  couple  hell? — O,  fie!     Hold,  my  heart ; 
And  you,  my  sinews,  grow  not  instant  old, 
But  bear  me  stiffly  up." 

And  turning  towards  the  castle  where  his  uncle  is 
still  carousing,  he  continues  : 

"  Oh  villain,  villain,  smiling  damned  villain." 

His  passion  has  reached  its  climax.  He  has 
drawn  his  sword,  it  falls  back  into  its  scabbard  ; 
physical  action,  the  immediate  brutal  revenge,  is 
abandoned,  and  Hamlet  cries  : 

"  My  tables — my  tables — meet  it  is  I  set  it  down." 

He  turns  from  the  sword  to  the  pen,  for  his  is 

127 


Hamlet 

essentially  the  literary  mind.  His  strength  is  spent ; 
subtlety  takes  the  place  of  action — the  mind  is 
stronger  than  the  body.  Here  the  same  symptom 
is  shown  as  in  persons  who  become  lightheaded 
from  physical  exhaustion.  Hamlet  can  always, 
such  is  the  agility  of  his  mind,  travesty  his  own 
emotions,  and  in  this  spirit  he  jots  down  on  his 
tablets  : 

"  That  one  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain ; 
At  least,  I'm  sure,  it  may  be  so  in  Denmark." 

This  same  hysteria  continues  through  the  following 
scene  when  Hamlet  addresses  the  Ghost : 

"  Well  said,  old  mole !    Can'st  work  i'  the  earth  so  fast?  " 

The  first  indication  of  an  apparent  aberration 
of  the  mind  occurs  here.  Horatio  and  Marcellus 
come  in  search  of  Hamlet  and  question  him  as  to 
his  interview  with  the  Ghost.  "  Oh,  wonderful  !  " 
says  Hamlet. 

Hor.  Good  my  lord,  tell  it. 

Ham.     (Suspiciously.)  No;  you'll  reveal  it. 
Hor.     Not  I,  my  lord,  by  heaven. 
Mar.  Nor  I,  my  lord. 

Ham.     How    say    you,   then ;   would    heart  of    man 
once  think  it  ? — 
But  you'll  be  secret  ? 
Hor.  and  Mar.  Ay,  by  heaven,  my  lord. 

Hamlet  is  now  evidently  on  the  point  of 
revealing  the  purport  of  the  Ghost's  message. 
"  There's  ne'er  a  villain  dwelling  in  all  Denmark," 

128 


Hamlet 

he  begins ;  then  suddenly,  his  suspicion  of 
Marcellus  asserting  itself,  he  adds,  "  but  he's  an 
arrant  knave." 

He  continues  to  pour  out  "  wild  and  whirling 
words,*'  and  makes  them  swear  on  his  sword  that 
they  will  never  reveal  the  knowledge  of  what  has 
passed  that  night.     Upon  being  assured  of  their 
secrecy,   he  tells  them  clearly   that   the   Ghost  is 
an  "honest"  one,  and  then  he  opens  up  to  them 
what  is  in  his  mind.     He  may  hereafter,  for  his 
own  purposes,   "  put  on  an  antic  disposition  " — 
that  is  to  say,  feign  madness  in  order  to  be  the 
better  able  to  play  the  detective,  and  he  enjoins 
them,   by  all  they  hold  sacred,   not  to  reveal  to 
any   soul    that  he    is    thus   by   diplomacy   about 
to  undertake  what  his  physical  enterprise  shrinks 
from — the  avenging  of  his  father's  murder.     After 
reverently    apostrophising    the    dead    King's    per- 
turbed spirit,  he  gives  his  companions  the  cue  to 
go.     Again  he  feels  unequal  to  the  terrible  task 
imposed  upon  him,  and  cries  : 

"The  time  is  out  of  joint: — O  cursed  spite, 
That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  it  right  1" 

With  his  dead  father's  voice  still  ringing  in  his 
ears,  he  goes  dazed  and  exhausted  from  the  scene, 
contemplating,  may  be,  with  his  mind's  eye,  the 
terrible  vista  of  events  between  him  and  the  goal 
of  destiny. 

J  129 


Hamlet 

In  the  second  act  we  find  Hamlet  busy  with 
his  scheme  of  feigning  madness,  for  Ophelia  tells 
her  father  how  Lord  Hamlet  had  come  to  her  in  a 
disordered  mental  and  physical  state,  and  how  by 
his  demeanour  he  had  affrighted  her.  The  inter- 
view probably  took  place  immediately  after 
Hamlet's  meeting  with  the  Ghost.  Now  this  brings 
us  to  a  consideration  as  to  how  far  Hamlet's 
mind  was  overbalanced  by  the  terrible  revelation. 
Hamlet  evidently  takes  an  intellectual  and  painful 
delight  in  exercising  his  ingenuity  and  his  wit 
upon  the  various  dupes  of  his  feigned  madness. 
He  is,  in  fact,  always  an  artist — the  literary  man 
who  makes  copy  out  of  his  own  emotions  for  his 
own  edification.  He  vivisects  his  victims,  himself 
the  greatest  of  these  ;  the  exercise  proves  fatal. 
But  in  considering  the  subject  of  Hamlet's  mad- 
ness or  sanity,  let  it  be  borne  in  mind  that  never 
in  his  soliloquies,  and  never  in  his  communings 
with  Horatio,  does  he  mutter  words  of  madness. 
This  is  my  case — the  antic  disposition  is  only  put 
on  with  those  whom  he  does  not  trust,  or  with 
those  whom  he  has  an  interest  in  hoodwinking. 
As  presented  on  the  stage,  I  conceive  that  Hamlet 
enters  slightly  before  his  cue,  detects  the  King 
and  Polonius  in  their  conspiracy,  vanishes  for  a 
moment  behind  the  curtains,  and  then  enters 
stark,  staring  mad  to  Polonius. 

"  Do  you  know  me,  my  lord  ?  "   asks  Polonius. 

130 


Hamlet 

"  Excellent  well,"  replies  Hamlet ;  "  you're  a 
fishmonger."  In  his  moods  of  madness,  Hamlet 
takes  pleasure  in  letting  his  wit  run  riot — like  a 
colt  in  a  paddock.  On  Polonius  saying,  "  My 
honourable  lord,  I  will  most  humbly  take  my 
leave,"  Hamlet  replies,  "  You  cannot,  sir,  take 
from  me  anything  that  I  will  more  willingly  part 
withal — except  my  life,  except  my  life,  except  my 
life  " — leaping  at  a  bound,  such  is  the  versatility 
of  his  nature,  from  the  gay  to  the  grave. 

In  the  scene  with  Rosencrantz  and  Guilden- 
stern,  who  have  come  to  spy  upon  him,  Hamlet 
receives  them  with  perfect  courtesy  till  his  sus- 
picions are  aroused.  "  Beggar  that  I  am,  I  am 
even  poor  in  thanks,  but  I  thank  you."  And  here 
comes  a  point  at  which,  as  I  have  suggested 
before,  the  meaning  of  the  play  may  be  illumined 
by  stage  business.  Hamlet,  in  all  the  frankness  of 
his  nature,  gives  his  hand  to  Rosencrantz.  He 
finds  it  moist  with  moisture  of  nervousness  and 
treachery.  He  looks  into  Rosencrantz's  eyes,  and, 
reading  in  them  a  confirmation  of  the  hand's 
betrayal,  he  suddenly  asks,  "  Were  you  not  sent 
for  ?  Is  it  your  own  inclining  ?  Is  it  a  free 
visitation  ?  "  And  he  wrings  from  the  two  con- 
federates a  confession  of  espionage. 

Once  satisfied  of  the  correctness  of  his  own 
suspicions,  Hamlet  again  puts  on  '  the  antic 
disposition."     "  I   have   of   late,"   he  says,    ''  but 

*3* 


Hamlet 

wherefore  I  know  not,  lost  all  my  mirth,  foregone 
all  custom  of  exercise  ;  indeed,  it  goes  so  heavily 
with  my  disposition  that  this  goodly  frame,  the 
earth,  seems  to  me  a  sterile  promontory ;  this 
most  excellent  canopy,  the  air,  look  you,  this 
brave  o'erhanging  firmament — this  majestical  roof, 
fretted  with  golden  fire,  why  it  appears  no  other 
thing  to  me  but  a  foul  and  pestilent  congregation 
of  vapours."  But  here  he  breaks  off,  the  artist 
becomes  absorbed  by  his  own  eloquence  rather 
than  with  its  purpose,  and  with  an  enthusiasm  very 
wide  from  all  assumption  of  madness,  he  continues 
with  those  splendid  words  beginning,  "  What  a 
piece  of  work  is  man  !  " 

In  this  scene  occurs  a  passage  which  seems  to 
me  the  keystone  of  Hamlet's  character.  It  is  a 
phrase  in  which  the  whole  tragedy  of  his  life  is 
bounded  as  in  a  nutshell.  Hamlet  exclaims, 
There  is  nothing  either  good  or  bad,  but  thinking 
makes  it  so."  In  these  words  we  find  the  clue  to 
the  failure  of  many  a  potentially  great  man.  The 
man  who  most  succeeds  in  life  is  he  who  only  sees 
one  side.  The  man  whose  mental  horizon  is  wide, 
who  is  capable  of  seeing  the  good  and  evil  on  both 
sides,  who  wanders  from  the  high-road  of  a  fixed 
purpose  into  the  by-lanes  of  philosophical  contem- 
plation, will  not  reach  his  goal  so  soon  as  he  who 
only  looks  straight  ahead,  and  follows  the  nose 
of    purpose    unthinkingly.      A    demonstration    of 

132 


Hamlet 

this  is  contained  in  the  written  play  of  Hamlet, 
which  the  brief  three  hours'  traffic  of  the  stage 
prevents  being  shown  in  action.  I  refer  to  the 
character  of  Fortinbras.  He  sees  only  one  side 
of  things,  and  knows  precisely  what  he  wants. 
And  what  is  the  result  ?  Well,  the  result  is,  that 
when  Hamlet  is  dead,  this  essentially  practical, 
unimaginative  young  man  comes  in,  and,  in  the 
language  of  our  modern  slang,  "  takes  the  cake." 
Perplexed  as  he  is,  Hamlet  is  only  too  glad  to 
turn  to  the  players,  in  order  for  the  moment  to 
divert  his  mind  from  the  contemplation  of  the 
duty  which  the  Ghost  has  imposed  upon  him. 
And  he  asks  them  to  give  him  a  taste  of  their 
quality.  But  the  speech  of  the  actor  only  serves 
to  remind  Hamlet  of  his  dormant  duty.  And 
here  may  be  mentioned  a  bit  of  by-play,  which 
may  serve  to  emphasise  what  may  have  been  in 
Shakespeare's  mind.  In  the  course  of  his  recital 
of  Hecuba's  woes,  the  player  makes  use  of  the 
exclamation  '  mobled  Queen."  Hamlet  repeats 
the  words.  This  may  be  the  first  glimmering  of 
Hamlet's  scheme  to  expose  the  King  through  the 
medium  of  the  play,  and  with  a  view  to  illustrat- 
ing this,  the  actor  may  take  out  his  tablets  and 
reflectively  jot  down  some  rough  notes.  .  . 
Hamlet  is  now  left  alone,  and  throws  himself  on 
a  couch.  The  pent-up  stream  of  hitherto  unspoken 
thoughts  is  poured  forth  in  torrents  of  eloquence 

*33 


Hamlet 

in  the  speech,  "  O  what  a  rogue,  and  peasant  slave 
am  I  !  "  It  seems  to  him  monstrous  that  this 
player  should  for  the  imagined  wrongs  of  Hecuba 
("  What's  Hecuba  to  him  or  he  to  Hecuba  ?  ") 
be  able  to  shed  tears  and  to  be  distracted,  while 
he  himself  feels  impotent  to  avenge  the  bloody 
death  of  his  own  father.  Here  again  the  artist  is 
paramount.  Instead  of  rushing  to  the  immediate 
revenge,  he  chews  the  cud  of  his  wrath.  To  illus- 
trate this  state  of  mind,  I  have  introduced  the 
action  of  Hamlet  making  sword-thrusts  at  the 
empty  throne  at  the  words,  "  Bloody,  bawdy 
villain !  O  vengeance  .  .  ."  Hamlet,  in  fact, 
loves  to  "  act,"  while  he  shrinks  from  doing  the 
deed  of  violence.  The  actor  should  suggest  that 
Hamlet  has  spent  his  energy  in  vain  unpackings 
of  his  heart,  and  the  drawn  sword  drops  by  his 
side,  as  he  cries  in  the  impotence  of  his  despair, 
"  O,  what  an  ass  am  I  !  .  .  ."  He  turns  to 
the  thought  of  testing  the  King  through  the  play, 
and  thus  excuses  himself  for  his  inaction.  "  The 
spirit  that  I  have  seen  may  be  the  devil,  .  .  ," 
meaning  that  the  Ghost  may  be  an  invention  of 
the  devil  to  entrap  him  into  murder,  to  avenge 
what  may  not  have  been  a  murder  after  all  ! 
Hamlet  will  temporise  ;  "  I'll  have  grounds  more 
relative  than  this,"  he  cries.  "  The  play's  the  thing 
wherein  I'll  catch  the  conscience  of  the  King." 
Here,  again,  the  actor  may  illumine  the  text  with 

i34 


Hamlet 

illustrative  by-play.  I  have  thought  it  permissible 
to  illustrate  the  gruesomeness  of  the  situation  by 
making  the  stage  grow  gradually  dark.  The  only 
light  comes  from  a  huge  fire,  and  with  its  aid, 
Hamlet,  kneeling,  dashes  down  on  his  tablets  the 
lines  to  be  embodied  in  the  murder  of  Gonzago — 
the  speech  through  which  he  hopes  to  "  catch  the 
conscience  of  the  King."  This  is,  of  course,  a 
purely  pictorial  effect. 

In  Act  III.  we  find  the  King,  the  Queen,  and 
Polonius  scheming  to  find  out  from  the  fair  Ophelia 
whether  Hamlet's  madness  is  due  to  love  or  some 
other  cause,  and  the  meeting  of  Hamlet  and  Ophelia 
is  pre-arranged  by  them.  Ophelia,  unwillingly  it 
may  be,  consents,  and  sits  down  with  a  book  in 
her  hand  before  the  prie-dieu.  Meanwhile  the 
King  and  Polonius  have  concealed  themselves,  and 
Hamlet  enters  with  the  words,  "  To  be  or  not  to 
be."  From  her  coign  of  vantage  Ophelia  listens 
to  the  self-torturings  of  Hamlet  in  that  great 
soliloquy  wherein  he  pours  out  his  very  heart, 
and  she  falls  upon  her  knees  praying  for  her  lover. 
Hamlet's  wondrous  words  may,  perhaps,  be  thought 
thus  to  gain  an  added  pathos  and  significance. 
Observe  here,  as  in  all  Hamlet's  self-communings 
throughout  the  play,  that  every  word  uttered  by 
him  is  sane.  In  this  instance  he  gives  vent  to 
his  sighs — as  who  indeed  has  not  before  he  reaches 

i35 


Hamlet 

the  middle  age  of  cynicism,  and  accepts  the  world 
at  its  own  valuation  ?  He  longs  for  that  sleep  of 
death  which  shall  be  the  term  of  all  ills  ;  he  rails 
at  the  oppressor's  wrongs,  at  the  insolence  of  office, 
as  who  among  us  has  not  railed  ?  And  he  laments 
the  spurns  that  patient  merit  from  the  unworthy 
takes.  What  wonder  that  a  new  pity  gilds  the 
love  of  Ophelia  ?  So  great  is  Hamlet's  shrinking 
from  the  task  imposed,  that  at  this  moment  he 
contemplates  taking  his  own  life  in  order  to  avoid 
taking  that  of  the  King.  Revenge  itself  is  now 
sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought.  And 
then  again  the  leit-motif  rings  in  our  ears — that  motif 
which,  in  considering  Hamlet's  attitude,  I  cannot 
sufficiently  insist  upon  :  "  There  is  nothing  either 
good  or  bad,  but  thinking  makes  it  so."  Tempest- 
tossed,  rudderless,  anchorless,  he  stands  before 
the  fair  Ophelia,  the  most  pitiable  figure  the  mind 
of  man  has  ever  conjured  up.  And  seeking  the 
sympathy  of  woman — as  who  has  not  in  such 
moments  ? — he  exclaims,  "  Nymph,  in  thy  orisons 
be  all  my  sins  remembered." 

We  have  now  come  to  a  scene  which  has 
perhaps  more  than  any  other  vexed  the  minds 
of  the  analytical,  but  which  by  the  aid  of  im- 
aginative stage  treatment — and  let  us  always 
remember  that  Hamlet  is  a  stage  play — appears  to 
me  to  have  all  the  clearness  of  a  blue  sky.  It 
should  be  the  endeavour  of  the  actor  (with  the 

136 


Hamlet 

aid  of  such  imaginative  stage  business)  to  make 
it  so  clear.  I  have  taken  counsel  of  many,  I  have 
waded  through  innumerable  comments,  but  the 
following  seems  to  me  a  simple  exposition  of  a 
supposed  mystery  : 

Oph.  Good  my  lord,  how  does  your  Honour  for 
this  many  a  day  ? 

Ham.  (Leaving  her  presence,  and  with  infinite  sadness.) 
I  humbly  thank  you.     Well,  well,  well. 

Ophelia  stops  him.  "  My  lord,  I  have  remem- 
brances of  yours  that  I  have  longed  to  redeliver  ; 
I  pray  you  now  receive  them."  From  my  prompt 
book  I  now  take  the  following  : — Hamlet  looks 
tenderly  at  Ophelia,  as  though  on  the  point  of 
embracing  her.  But  at  this  moment  his  hand 
falls  on  the  medallion  containing  his  father's 
portrait,  which  he  wears  round  his  neck.  He  is 
reminded  of  the  duty  imposed  upon  him — the  echo 
of  his  father's  voice  rings  in  his  ears.  His  duty 
towards  his  father  is  more  sacred  even  than  his 
love  for  Ophelia.  He  remembers  that  oath  '  to 
wipe  away  all  trivial  fond  records,"  and  he  at  once 
assumes  madness,  as  with  a  dazed  look  he  says, 
"  No,  not  I — I  never  gave  you  aught."  Of  course 
Hamlet  would  remember  his  gifts  if  he  were  sane  ; 
and  his  reply  is  an  apparent  confirmation  of  the 
contention  that  Hamlet  is  mad.  Assuming  him 
to  be  sane,  the  explanation  is  simple  enough.     I 

i37 


Hamlet 

turn  to  my  prompt  book  and  I  find  this  note  : 
Hamlet  looks  tenderly  at  Ophelia,  as  she  in  words 
of  gentle  chiding  thus  reproaches  him  : 

'  My  honour'd  lord,  you  know  right  well  you  did ; 
And,  with  them,  words  of  so  sweet  breath  compos'd 
As  made  the  things  more  rich  ;    their  perfume  lost, 
Take  these  again  ;   for  to  the  noble  mind 
Rich  gifts  wax  poor  when  givers  prove  unkind. 
There,  my  lord." 

Hamlet  is  filled  with  love  and  pity  for  Ophelia. 
But,  to  him,  all  womanhood  seems  smirched  by 
his  mother's  act.  Has  he  not  exclaimed  in  the 
first  act,  "  Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman  "  ?  Here, 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  actor  may  again  elucidate 
what  a  hasty  reading  of  the  text  may  not  make 
clear.  Hamlet,  according  to  my  view,  takes 
Ophelia  by  the  hand,  and,  peering  into  her  face, 
asks,  "  Are  you  honest  ?  Are  you  fair  ?  "  meaning, 
is  there  one  woman  whom  I  can  trust  ?  "  What 
means  your  lordship  ?  "  Ophelia  asks.  "  That 
if  you  be  honest  and  fair,  your  honesty  should 
admit  no  discourse  to  your  beauty.  .  .  ."  The 
line,  "  This  was  sometime  a  paradox,  but  now 
the  time  gives  it  proof,"  is  clearly  pointed  at  the 
relations  between  the  King  and  Queen.  "  I  loved 
you  not,"  says  Hamlet,  plucking,  as  it  were,  his 
heart  from  his  sleeve.  Ophelia  sinks  upon  the 
couch.  "  I  was  the  more  deceived."  Hamlet  goes 
to  her.     "Get  thee  to  a  nunnery,"  he  says,  and 

138 


Hamlet 

with  great  tenderness.  His  meaning  is,  "  Go  away 
from  the  world.  Do  not  drift  about  in  this  re- 
lentless sea  without  the  anchor  of  my  love,"  and 
he  goes  on  to  pour  out  the  confession  of  his  un- 
worthiness,  so  that  she  may  not  grieve  for  him — 
"  I  could  accuse  me  of  such  things,  it  were  better 
my  mother  had  not  borne  me.  .  .  .  What 
should  such  fellows  as  I  do,  crawling  between 
earth  and  heaven  ?  We  are  arrant  knaves  all  ; 
believe  none  of  us.  Go  thy  ways  to  a  nunnery." 
At  this  moment  Ophelia  in  her  distress  has  risen. 
A  gust  of  pity  and  love  surges  up  in  Hamlet's  nature. 
He  takes  Ophelia  in  his  arms  and  is  about  to 
kiss  her,  when  over  her  head  he  sees  the  forms 
of  Polonius  and  the  King,  spying  through  the 
arras.  "  Where  is  your  father  ?  "  he  asks  Ophelia, 
taking  her  face  between  his  hands.  Ophelia 
replies,  "  At  home,  my  lord."  Hamlet  has  trusted 
Ophelia,  and  now  it  seems  that  she  too  is  false. 
His  soul  full  of  loathing,  he  flings  her  from  him, 
crying,  "  Let  the  doors  be  shut  upon  him  that 
he  play  the  fool  nowhere  but  in  his  own  house. 
Farewell."  Not  knowing  what  is  in  Hamlet's 
mind,  Ophelia  exclaims,  "  O  help  him,  ye  sweet 
heavens."  And  then  Hamlet  pours  forth  a  torrent 
of  words,  partly  of  reproach  to  Ophelia — words 
which  sear  her  soul — partly  of  pretended  madness, 
which  words  are  meant  for  the  ears  of  Polonius 
and  the  King,   who  are  watching.     "Go  to,   I'll 

*39 


Hamlet 

no  more  on't ;  it  hath  made  me  mad  !  I  say  we 
will  have  no  more  marriages.  Those  that  are 
married  already — all  but  one  "  (meaning  the  King) 
"  shall  live.  The  rest  shall  keep  as  they  are." 
And  with  one  more  wild  exclamation  of  "To  a 
nunnery  go  !  "  Hamlet  rushes  from  the  room. 

I  have  read  that  Edmund  Kean,  in  this  scene, 
used  to  come  on  the  stage  again,  and  after  looking 
at  Ophelia  with  tenderness,  would  smother  her 
hands  with  passionate  kisses,  and  rush  wildly 
away.  But  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  tragedy  of 
the  situation  lay  in  the  fact  that  Ophelia  goes  to 
her  death  ignorant  of  Hamlet's  love.  And  bearing 
this  fact  in  mind,  I  have  made  a  variation  in  the 
"  business  " ;  thus  after  flinging  Ophelia  from  him 
and  rushing  wildly  from  the  room,  Hamlet,  in  a 
sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  returns.  He  finds 
Ophelia  kneeling  at  the  couch,  sobbing  in  anguish. 
Hamlet's  first  impulse  is  to  console  her.  But  he 
dare  not  show  his  heart.  Unobserved,  he  steals  up 
to  her,  tenderly  kisses  one  of  the  tresses  of  her 
hair,  silently  steals  from  the  room,  finding  his  way 
without  his  eyes,  giving,  in  one  deep  sigh,  all  his 
love  to  the  winds.  Ophelia  cries  :  "  O,  woe  is  me, 
to  see  what  I  have  seen,  see  what  I  see."  That 
noble  and  most  sovereign  reason  is  now  to  her, 
like  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tunc,  and  harsh. 
Hamlet's  antic  disposition  has  had  its  desired 
effect ;    for  the  King  and  Polonius  are  now  con- 

140 


Hamlet 

vinced  of  his  madness,  as  is  shown  in  an  almost 
immediately  succeeding  passage  in  the  play  : 

"  Madness  in  great  ones  must  not  unwatched  go." 

Hamlet  now  re-enters  with  the  players.     Pointing 
to  the  manuscript  in  his  hand,  he  begins  : 

"  Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  it  to 
you,  trippingly  on  the  tongue." 

In    this    scene   Hamlet    is    again    the    artist.     He 
instructs  the  players  how  to  hold  the  mirror  up 
to  nature  ;    and  certainly  a  more  sane  exposition 
of  the  whole  duty  of  the  actor  cannot  be  imagined, 
or  a  more  scathing  satire  on  a  deviation  from  that 
ideal.     The  interview  concluded,   Hamlet  is  once 
more  seen  to  be  exhausted  by  his  own  energy.     A 
sigh  escapes  him — he  sinks  into  a  chair,  his  head 
tossed,    like    a    child's,    from    side    to    side.     But 
Horatio    comes ;     on    him,    now    that    Ophelia    is 
banished,  Hamlet  leans.     In  him  he  recognises  a 
man  who  has  those  qualities  in  which  he  himself 
is   tragically    deficient.     Here   is    a   man     '  whose 
blood  and  judgment  are  so  well  commingled  that 
they  are  not  a  pipe  for  Fortune's  fingers  to  sound 
what  stop  she  please."     Horatio  is  indeed  the  ideal 
friend.     He  is  the  eternal  Bos  well  who  understands 
another's    nature   by   sympathy.     And,    what   an 
important  part  in  life  is  played  by  men  of  this 
restful  nature !    If  not  great  in  themselves,  they  have 

141 


Hamlet 

that  other  attribute  of  genius  of  being  the  cause  of 
greatness  in  others.  Horatio  is  no  courtier.  He 
seeks  no  flatterers — to  him  Hamlet  can  pour  out 
his  heart,  pour  out  the  heart  silenced  in  that 
atmosphere  of  duplicity  and  self-seeking  with 
which  it  has  been  surrounded,  an  atmosphere 
which  to  some  natures  is  the  very  breath  of  life. 

"  Give  me  that  man  that  is  not  passion's 
slave,"  Hamlet  cries,  "  and  I  will  wear  him  in 
my  heart's  core ;  aye,  in  my  heart  of  heart, 
as  I  do  thee."  Then,  with  a  gentle  reserve,  he 
adds,  "  Something  too  much  of  this,"  and  returns 
to  his  purpose.  After  stealing  up  to  the  arras  to 
see  if  the  King  is  still  hiding,  he  returns  to  Horatio, 
and  into  the  ears  of  this  one  friend  on  whom 
he  can  rely,  he  pours,  in  brief  but  vivid  words, 
his  scheme  for  catching  the  King's  conscience. 
With  the  very  comment  of  his  soul,  Horatio  is 
to  watch  the  King's  reception  of  "  The  Murder 
of  Gonzago."  Here  is  to  be  a  first  night  which 
will  give  the  audience  pause,  unless  the  Ghost 
is  a  damned  one,  and  Hamlet's  imaginations,  as 
a  consequence,  "  as  foul  as  Vulcan's  stithy." 
But  the  festal  march  heralds  the  approach  of  the 
Court  to  the  play.  And  here  I  may  mention 
another  instance  of  stage-management  which  may 
make  clear  a  passage  that  has  taxed  the  ingenuity 
of  some  commentators. 

"  I  must  be  idle,"   Hamlet  cries,   and   he  at 

142 


Hamlet 

once  puts  on  his  antic  disposition.     A  court  jester 
heads  the  procession  ;   with  him  Hamlet  converses, 
and   at   him   he   plays   the   scene   which   follows. 
"  How  fares  our  cousin  Hamlet  ?  "   asks  the  King. 
"  Excellent,  i'   faith,  of  the  chameleon's  dish.     I 
eat  the  air,  promise  crammed.     You  cannot  feed 
capons  so,"  pointing  to  the  cocks-combed  jester. 
The  King,  surprised,  says  :    "  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  this  answer,   Hamlet ;    these  words  are  not 
mine."     "  No,    nor    mine   now,"    replies    Hamlet, 
again  pointing  to  the  jester.     To  him  also  Hamlet 
addresses  his  comment  on  Polonius'  announcement, 
that  he  had  once  played  Julius  Caesar,  and  that 
Brutus  had  killed  him  i'  the  Capitol.     "  It  was  a 
brute  part  of  him  to  kill  so  capital  a  calf."     Here 
is  a  minor  point,  but  Hamlet's  punning  reply  would 
be  appreciated  by  this  particular  listener,  and  the 
touch,  light  though  it  be,  has  been  found,  I  believe, 
to  lend  relief  and  realism  to  the  scene.     The  suc- 
ceeding coarse  remarks  which  Hamlet  addresses  to 
Ophelia    (remarks    which    have    also    amazed    the 
erudite  from  their  being  obviously  foreign  to  the 
Prince's  noble    nature)   I  conceive  to    have  been 
directed    really    to    the    King's    ear.     They    are, 
indeed,  episodical  additions  to  the  scheme  of  feigned 
madness.    As  "  The  Murder  of  Gonzago  "  proceeds, 
Hamlet,  lying  at  Ophelia's  feet,  watches  the  King 
from  behind  the  manuscript  which  he  holds  in  his 
hand,    gradually    crawling    snake-like    across    the 

i43 


Hamlet 

stage  to  the  foot  of  the  King's  throne.  A  writer 
describing  Booth's  performance  at  this  point,  says, 
'  As  the  mimic  murder  is  accomplished,  lie  springs 
up  with  a  cry  like  an  avenging  spirit.  It  seems  to 
drive  the  frightened  court  before  it." 

I  think  that  I  need  not  dwell  further  on  the 
conduct  of  that  great  scene  of  a  play  within  a 
play,  during  which  Hamlet  is  irrevocably  con- 
vinced of  his  uncle's  guilt,  a  scene  which  never 
fails  to  arouse  and  arrest  the  excited  attention  of 
an  audience,  and  which  leaves  Hamlet  a  prey  to  the 
hysteria  which  culminates  in  the  speech,  "  Now  let 
the  stricken  deer  go  weep,"  at  the  end  of  which 
he  falls  sobbing  on  Horatio's  breast.  At  the  en- 
trance of  the  spy-courtiers,  Rosencrantz  and 
Guildenstern,  Hamlet  reverts  to  his  antic  dispo- 
sition, trifling  away  with  withering  satire  the  time 
during  which  he  might  be  accomplishing  his  un- 
doing of  the  King.  Polonius  enters,  and  again 
Hamlet  dances  on  the  grave  of  his  own  emotion 
in  the  exercise  of  his  scathing  badinage.  The 
strain  of  the  tragedy  through  which  his  mind  has 
passed  is  too  great,  and  in  this  revulsion  he  finds 
that  humorous  relief  so  dear  to  Shakespeare  and 
to  the  hearts  of  audiences  at  a  play.  Dismissing 
the  false  friends,  Hamlet  is  left  alone,  and  there 
being  no  longer  any  object  in  assuming  madness, 
he  becomes  perfectly  sane,  and  recognises  the 
necessity  of  action. 

144 


Hamlet 

Here  I  have  made  a  new  departure  from  the 
ordinar}'  acting  version  of  the  play.  To  the 
soliloquy  beginning  with  the  line,  "  'Tis  now  the 
very  witching  time  of  night,"  I  have  added  that 
other  soliloquy  of  the  fourth  act,  which  is,  perhaps, 
the  greatest  of  all  of  them,  and  to  which,  since 
Shakespeare's  days,  the  walls  of  the  theatre  have 
never  or  rarely  resounded.  Those  noble  lines, 
"  How  all  occasions  do  inform  against  me,  and 
spur  my  dull  revenge  "  (vividly  illustrative  as  they 
are  of  the  workings  of  Hamlet's  inner  nature,  and, 
therefore,  of  the  highest  importance  to  the  play), 
have  been  banished  from  the  stage,  because  they 
are  imprisoned  in  that  episode  of  the  journey  to 
England  which  cannot  be  presented  from  simple 
lack  of  time.  From  that  prison  I  have  freed  them, 
by  applying  them  here  at  a  moment  of  one  of 
Hamlet's  self-communings,  to  which  they  seem 
equally  applicable.  And  if  the  transposition  be 
held  to  be  daring,  it  may  claim  the  excuse  of  having 
been  done  in  the  cause  of  preserving  a  poetic 
gem.  The  concluding  words  of  this  speech  are  : 
"  O  from  this  time  forth,  my  thoughts  be  bloody 
or  be  nothing  worth."  And  to  these,  in  my  version, 
the  speech  beginning  "  'Tis  now  the  very  witching- 
time  of  night "  is  appropriately  joined. 

Hamlet  now  starts  on  his  mission  to  his  mother. 
Again  his  gentle  nature  asserts  itself,  and  he  kneels 

K  145 


Hamlet 

down  to  pray  to  the  Virgin  :  "  Let  not  ever  the 
soul  of  Nero  enter  this  firm  bosom — let  me  be  cruel, 
not  unnatural — I  will  speak  daggers  to  her,  but 
use  none."  On  his  way  through  one  of  the  wind- 
ing corridors  of  the  castle,  he  stumbles  upon  the 
very  subject  of  his  intended  revenge.  He  finds 
the  King  praying.  The  opportunity  so  long 
looked  for  has  come  "  pat "  at  last.  The  soliloquy 
in  which  Hamlet's  purpose  once  more  dissipates 
itself  has  been  described  by  Johnson  as  "  too 
horrible  to  be  read  or  to  be  uttered."  Hamlet 
finds  relief  in  those  terrible  words.  The  scene 
is  important,  because  it  so  clearly  reveals  that 
tenderer  side  of  Hamlet's  nature,  which  makes  him 
seek  for  any  excuse  which  may  postpone  the 
shedding  of  blood.  Once  more  action  is  sicklied 
o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  philosophy. 

In  the  scene  with  the  Queen,  which  follows 
immediately  upon  this,  Hamlet  upbraids  his  mother 
in  such  passionate  words  as  to  lead  her  to  think 
he  is  bent  on  murdering  her.  A  voice  is  heard 
behind  the  arras ;  Hamlet  rushes  up,  wildly  thrust- 
ing his  sword  through  the  opening — a  dead  body 
falls  through  the  arras.  "Is  it  the  King  ?  "  asks 
Hamlet ;  then,  lifting  the  arras,  he  finds  that 
Polonius  is  the  victim  of  his  momentary  violence. 
He  once  more  turns  to  his  mother,  and  in  words  of 
passion,  in  which  there  is  no  madness,  contrasts  the 
living  husband  with  the  dead.     "  Look  here  upon 

146 


Hamlet 

this  picture  and  on  this — the  counterfeit  present- 
ment of  two  brothers."  There  has  always  been 
much  hot  discussion  as  to  whether  the  pictures 
should  be  really  shown,  or  whether  they  should 
only  be  in  the  mind's  eye.  Personally,  I  incline 
to  think  that  Shakespeare's  intention  was  that 
miniatures  should  be  used.  That  they  were  very 
generally  worn  (or  rather  supposed  to  be  worn) 
at  the  period  of  the  play  is  beyond  question,  for 
Hamlet  says  to  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  in 
an  earlier  scene,  speaking  of  his  uncle,  "  For  those 
that  would  make  mouths  at  him  while  my  father 
lived  will  give  twenty,  forty,  fifty,  a  hundred  ducats 
a  piece  for  his  picture  in  little."  But  after  all,  it 
is  not  material  to  the  great  issues  of  the  play 
whether  the  miniatures  or  pictures  are  pointed 
at,  or  whether  their  mention  is  only  symbolical. 
In  a  crescendo  of  passion,  Hamlet  pours  forth 
reproaches  to  the  Queen,  and  in  the  height  of 
his  frenzy  the  Ghost  of  his  dead  father  enters 
to  whet  his  son's  almost  blunted  purpose.  The 
sight  of  the  Ghost  is  not  vouchsafed  to  the  mother, 
who  cries,  '"  Alas,  he  is  mad."  In  the  scenes  in 
Act  I.  the  Ghost  has  appeared  to  the  soldiers  as 
well  as  to  the  practical  Horatio,  and  it  cannot, 
therefore,  be  maintained  that  the  apparition  is 
the  creation  of  Hamlet's  disordered  brain.  Indeed, 
after  the  Ghost's  disappearance,  Hamlet  takes 
pains  to  undeceive  his  mother  as  to  his  madness, 

147 


Hamlet 

telling  her  that  he  is  not  really  mad,  but  only  mad 
in  craft,  and  enjoins  her  not  to  let  the  King  suspect 
his  sanity.  After  counselling  the  Queen  to  lead 
a  purer  life  "  with  the  other  half,"  Hamlet  ex- 
presses his  sorrow  at  having  caused  the  death  of 
Polonius,  and  bids  his  mother  good-night,  leading 
her  sternly  to  the  prie-dieu,  at  which  she  kneels 
sobbing.  Hamlet's  words  are,  "  I  must  be  cruel 
only  to  be  kind.  Thus  bad  begins  "  ;  then  fate- 
fully  he  adds :  "  But  worse  remains  behind." 
And  so  ends  the  third  act  of  our  acting  version. 

As  Hamlet  does  not  appear  in  the  flesh  during 
Act  IV.,  I  need  not  refer  to  the  events  which  take 
place  in  its  course  ;  suffice  it  to  say,  that  there  is 
nothing  which  could  lead  us  to  a  different  estimate 
of  Hamlet's  mental  condition.  In  Act  V.  we  find 
the  two  gravediggers  digging  Ophelia's  grave. 
The  churchyard  is,  as  a  rule,  made  a  somewhat 
gloomy  scene,  and  here  I  may  mention  that  I 
have  thought  fit  to  change  the  setting.  It  is  a 
May-day  evening,  the  sweet-briar  is  in  bloom,  the 
birds  are  singing,  the  sheep-bells  are  tinkling — 
nature  is  rejoicing  while  man  is  mourning.  It  has 
seemed  to  me  that  rather  than  detracting  from  the 
tragic  events  which  pass  before  our  eyes,  an  added 
emphasis  is  thus  supplied  by  the  heartlessness  of 
nature.  Hamlet  appears  with  Horatio,  to  hear  the 
gravedigger  singing  a  comic  song  while  he  is  digging 
the  grave ;    and  this  gives  him  an  opportunity  of 

148 


Hamlet 

indulging  his  fission  for  idle  philosophy.  On  seeing 
the  skull  of  Yoriek  he  again  gives  full  rein  to  his 
imagination,  as  he  pictures  to  himself  how — 

"  Imperious  Caesar,  dead,  and  turned  to  clay, 
Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away." 

But  his  musings  are  cut  short  by  the  approach  of 
the  mourning  procession.  Hamlet  is  overcome 
with  grief  on  learning  of  the  fair  Ophelia's  death. 
" Forty  thousand  brothers,"  he  cries,  "could  not, 
with  all  their  quantity  of  love,  make  up  my  sum." 
That  Hamlet  deeply  loved  Ophelia  is  thus  shown. 
And  in  order  to  emphasise  this  side  of  Hamlet's 
nature,  I  have  introduced  the  following  effect  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  Graveyard  scene.  Hamlet 
has  departed,  followed  by  the  King,  Queen,  Laertes, 
and  the  courtiers.  In  the  church  close  by,  the 
organ  peals  out  a  funeral  march.  Night  is  falling, 
the  birds  are  at  rest,  Ophelia's  grave  is  deserted. 
But  through  the  shadows,  Hamlet's  returning  form 
is  seen  gathering  wild  flowers.  He  is  alone  with 
his  dead  love,  and  on  her  he  strews  the  flowers  as 
he  falls  by  her  grave  in  a  paroxysm  of  grief.  And 
so  the  curtain  falls. 

The  last  scene  of  all  which  ends  this  strange 
eventful  history,  takes  place  in  the  courtyard  of 
the  Palace.  Hamlet  feels  the  hand  of  fate  upon 
him — but  to  him  death  has  lost  its  terror.      k  If 

149 


Hamlet 

it  be  now,  'tis  not  to  come.     If  it  be  not  to  come, 
it  will  be  now — if  it  be  not  now,  yet  it  will  come," 
are  his  words  to  Horatio.     The  most  determined 
quibbler  could  hardly  find  symptoms  of  madness 
in    Hamlet's    latest    utterances.     With    exquisite 
grace  Hamlet  makes  his  amende  and  his  salute  to 
Laertes,  and  proceeds  to  play  with  the  foils.     Here, 
in  passing,  I  may  touch  upon  a  small  point  which 
nevertheless    has    been    much    debated — I    mean 
the  line  "  Our  son  is  fat  and  scant  of  breath." 
I   take   it   that   Shakespeare   wrote     '  Our  son   is 
faint  and  scant  of  breath,"   and  so  it  is  spoken 
on   our  stage.     Mark   how   this   reading   is   borne 
out    by    the    dialogue    as    illustrated    by    stage 
management. 

Hamlet  and  Laertes  have  been  fencing  vio- 
lently. The  King  asks  that  the  cup  be  given 
him.  Hamlet  refuses  the  drink,  resumes  the 
fencing,  and,  for  the  second  time,  hits  Laertes  ; 
somewhat  exhausted  with  the  fight,  he  rests  on 
Horatio's  arm.  The  King  cries,  "  Our  son  shall 
win  "  ;    the  Queen — 

"  He's  faint,  and  scant  of  breath — 
Here,  Hamlet,  take  my  napkin  ;  rub  thy  brows." 

The  drink  is  again  sent  to  Hamlet.  The  Queen 
goes  to  him  and  says,  "Come,  let  us  wipe  thy  face." 
While  Hamlet  is  recovering,  the  King  and  Laertes 
are  afforded  an  opportunity  of  their  treacherous 

150 


Hamlet 

asides.  Now,  I  maintain  that  this  is  a  perfectly 
sane  interpretation  of  the  scene.  There  is  nothing 
to  indicate  that  Hamlet  was  a  fat  man,  and  I 
believe  that  the  word  was  originally  written 
"faint,"  but  that  the  "i"  and  the  "n"  were 
somehow  dropped  out  (perhaps  they  were  deleted 
by  a  too  humorous  prompter,  Burbage  the  actor 
having  been  a  fat  man !).  Moreover,  the  business 
of  the  scene  is  exactly  that  which  would  apply 
to  a  man  who  was  faint — you  would  give  him 
drink  and  you  would  wipe  his  brows.  This,  it 
seems  to  me,  does  not  apply  so  well  to  a  man 
who  was  suffering  from  obesity.  But  let  us  have 
done  with  quibble,  for  Hamlet  is  dying,  struck  by 
the  poisoned  sword  of  treachery  ;  fate  enters  his 
soul,  and,  at  last,  with  the  instrument  of  his  own 
destruction,  he  kills  the  King.  His  last  moments 
are  softened  by  a  sweet  sanity.  To  Horatio  his 
dying  words  are  addressed. 

"  If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart, 
Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain, 
To  tell  my  story." 

Kissing  the  forehead  of  his  friend,  and  with  his 
father's  picture  on  his  heart,  Hamlet  says,  with 
his  last  breath, 

The  rest  is  silence. 
I5i 


Hamlet 

Here  as  a  rule  the  curtain  falls  in  silence,  but 
I  prefer  to  preserve  Horatio's  beautiful  words: 

"  Now  cracks  a  noble  heart.     Good-night,  sweet  Prince, 
And  flights  of  angels  sing  thee  to  thy  rest." 

And  so,  with  the  faint  echo  of  heavenly  music 
ringing  in  our  ears,  the  record  of  Hamlet's  storm- 
toss'd  life  closes.  The  worst  that  can  have  been 
done  has  been  done — the  carnal,  bloody  and 
unnatural  acts  ;  the  accidental  judgments  ;  the 
deaths  put  on  by  cunning  and  fore'd  cause  ;  the 
purposes  mistook  fall'n  on  the  inventor's  head — 
all  these  conspiring  agents  of  an  unshunnable 
destiny  have  worked  their  remorseless  fill,  and  the 
end  is  serenity  and  rest  at  last.  Hamlet  sleeps, 
for  good  or  ill — for  there  is  nothing  either  good  or 
bad,  but  thinking  makes  it  so.  It  is  this  refrain 
which  rings  once  more  in  our  ears  as  we  take 
leave  of  the  sweet  Prince.  It  is  this  philosophic 
doubt  which  hangs  like  a  miasma  over  our  modern 
thought,  and  Hamlet  is  the  most  modern  of  men 
— he  is  not  only  of  to-day,  he  is  of  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  The  sickness  which  afflicted  Hamlet 
was  what  the  Germans  call  gruebeln — a  kind  of 
intellectual  burrowing  which  has  laid  many  a 
noble  nature  low.  Thought  is  the  great  destroyer. 
Our  fondest  teachings  crumble  in  its  presence  like 
castles  in  the  air — right  and  wrong  become  blurred 

152 


Hamlet 

and  confused  when  we  reflect  that  there  is 
nothing  either  good  or  bad,  but  thinking  makes 
it  so. 


It  has  been  my  aim  by  the  practical  assistance 
of  an  actor's  prompt  book  to  show  that  Hamlet's 
supposed  madness  was  a  feigned  madness,  and 
that  many  of  the  difficulties  of  this  Shakespearian 
masterpiece  are  really  little  else  than  the  outcome 
of  a  super-acute  but  unpractical  comment.  If  to 
the  pure  all  things  are  pure,  to  the  plain-seekers 
many  things  appear  plain.  And  if  some  of  the 
alleged  obscurities  of  Hamlet  may  be  dispelled 
by  a  stage-manager's  prompt  cop}^,  it  should  be 
remembered  that  Shakespeare  was  himself  a 
stage-manager.  The  fact  must  never  be  lost 
sight  of  that  his  plays  were  primarily  designed  for 
the  stage,  and  not  for  the  library  ;  that  though 
the  greatest  of  poets,  he  was  an  experienced  actor 
as  well ;  and  that  the  prompt  copies  of  his  own 
plays  must  have  been  originally  filled  with  stage 
business  in  the  highest  degree  illustrative  of  the 
text — indeed,  it  is  one  of  the  tragedies  of  literature 
that  the  greater  part  of  them  has  been  lost  for 
ever. 

I  have  done  my  best  to  make  myself  acquainted 
with    the    works    of    the    literary    commentators. 

i53 


Hamlet 

I  have  admired — as  who  has  not  ? — Goethe's 
exquisite  comparison  of  Hamlet's  nature  to  an 
oak-tree  planted  in  a  costly  vase  intended  only 
for  love  flowers,  and  Lessing's  fine  description 
of  the  majesty  of  buried  Denmark  as  "  A  Ghost 
before  whom  the  hair  stands  on  end  whether  it 
cover  a  believing  or  an  unbelieving  brow  "  ;  and 
Hazlitt's  exquisite  commentary  on  the  real  Hamlet 
who  is  in  each  one  of  us  who  has  "  lost  his  mirth, 
though  why  he  know  not  "  ;  and  Klein's  delightful 
ridicule  of  the  German  faddists  ;  and  Victor  Hugo's 
subtle  illustrative  quotation  from  the  Prometheus, 
'  That  to  pretend  madness  is  the  secret  of  the 
wise."  But  I  still  have  the  temerity  to  hope  that  I 
have  been  able  to  throw  an  added  light  on  Hamlet's 
difficulties  by  a  more  practical  medium  than  meta- 
physical speculation.  I  take  my  stand  on  the 
prompt  copy.  If  by  the  simple  application  of  an 
actor's  experience,  I  have  been  able  to  make 
Hamlet's  attitude  in  this  great  play  more  plain 
than  it  has  hitherto  appeared  to  many,  my  labours 
in  what  I  feel  to  be  a  good  and  a  sane  cause  will 
not  have  been  in  vain. 


J54 


Hamlet 

AFTER-THOUGHT 

In  most  versions  of  " Hamlet"  the  final  entry  of 
Fortinbras  is  omitted  ozving  to  the  exigencies  of  time. 
But  much  may  be  urged  in  favour  of  the  retention  of 
this  scene,  which  illustrates  the  ascendancy  of  physical 
energy    over    ethical    or    philosophic    inaction.     In 
Mr.  Gordon   Craig's  production  of  Hamlet  at  the 
Art  Theatre  in  Moscow,  which  I  witnessed  recently, 
I    was    deeply    impressed     by    the     picturesquely 
valid  presentation  of  this  scene.     Shakespeare  him- 
self frequently   dwells   on   the   ivorldly   mastery   of 
matter  over  mind — witness  the  triumph  of  Boling- 
broke   over   Richard   II.     Hamlet's   conscience   was 
his  downfall.     And  here  a  comparison  and  a  re- 
flection  may   be   allowed   me.     Hamlet  is  the  very 
opposite  of  lago — of  the  man,  thai  is  to  say,  who 
will  swim  with  the  stream  of  a  callous  utilitarianism 
rather  than  struggle  against  it.     Men  of  the  type  of 
lago    are   morally   colour-blind.     They   traffic   with 
intrigue.     For  them  this  mode  of  self-advancement 
has  no  ugliness.     The  study  of  their  lives  is  social 
success  ;    popularity  is  their  religion.     The  voice  of 
the  people  is  louder  than  the  voice  of  God.     With 
them  there  is  no   brainsickly   misgiving   as  to  the 
means  by  which  they  attain  their  ends.     Tiiey  go 
through  life,  slapping  their  fellow-men  on  the  back, 
everywhere  making  friends,  taking  care  nowhere  to 
make  enemies.     They  are  the  "  jolly  good  fellows  ' 

*55 


Hamlet 

of  a  remunerative  geniality.  The  social  'politician 
does  not  waste  time  in  asking  himself,  "Is  this 
right  ?  "  He  asks,  "Is  this  expedient  ?  "  and  he 
'  gets  there,"  as  the  Americans  say.  The  man  with 
scruples  cannot  compete  with  him.  Such  an  one, 
understanding  the  world,  may  say  to  himself,  in 
weariness,  "  Is  not  life  too  short  to  circumvent  intrigue 
and  chicanery  ?  To  attain  my  ends,  must  I  not 
make  terms  with  the  Mammon  of  unrighteousness  ?  " 
And  he  may  go  so  far  as  to  buckle  on  his  armour  to 
join  the  noble  army  of  "  logr 'oilers,"  to  enlist  in  the 
ranks  of  the  great  Society  of  Mutual  Protection. 
It  is  by  such  unholy  alliances  that  weak  particles 
make  themselves  strong.  But  the  inner  man,  the 
other  sensitive,  perhaps  weaker  self,  will  blush  before 
the  mirror  of  his  conscience  ;  in  scorn  he  will  fling 
aside  the  armour  and  spring  once  more  naked  into 
the  arena.  Cliques  are  the  outcome  of  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation  among  the  weak. 

Tims  to  combine  is  the  shortest  cut  to  fortune. 
The  world  was  not  made  for  poets  and  idealists.  We 
are  often  reminded  that  to  "  play  the  game "  is 
necessary  to  success  in  life,  and  that  to  be  a  good 
diplomatist  is  of  greater  importance  than  to  "  act 
well  your  part."  But  by  such  political  shifts  do 
men  forfeit  more  than  they  gain,  for  when  they  descend 
into  the  arena  to  mingle  with  the  pimps  and  panders 
of  party  they  lose  their  aloofness  of  mind,  the  birdseye 
view  of  the  philosopher. 

15^ 


Hamlet 

The  virginity  of  a  soul  cannot  be  recaptured. 
As  an  obscurist  observes  ; 

Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honour  lies ; 
Stoop  to  expediency  and  honour  dies. 
Many  there  are  that  in  the  race  for  fame 
Lose  the  great  cause  to  win  the  little  game, 
Who  pandering  to  the  town's  decadent  taste, 
Barter  the  precious  pearl  for  gawdy  paste, 
And  leave  upon  the  virgin  page  of  Time 
The  venom'd  trail  of  iridescent  slime. 


SOME    INTERESTING    FALLACIES 
OF    THE    MODERN    STAGE 


SOME  INTERESTING  FALLACIES 
OF  THE  MODERN  STAGE 

1891. 

WHEN  it  was  intimated  to  me  that  the  Play- 
goers' Club  would  be  glad  to  devote  a  Sun- 
day evening  to  the  discussion  of  a  subject  which,  I 
am  given  to  understand,  engrosses  their  attention 
during  the  other  six  days  of  the  week,  my  alacrity 
to  seize  the  opportunity  of  appearing  in  a  new 
character — that  of  a  lecturer — was  restrained  by 
the  reflection  that,  in  undertaking  this  task,  I 
might  offend  the  susceptibilities  of  that  class  of 
persons  who  make  a  point  of  never  entering  the 
doors  of  a  theatre.  Only  a  few  years  ago,  indeed, 
such  a  proposal  would  have  incurred  the  active 
enmity  of  the  united  phalanx  of  Puritans  and 
Publicans — that  unholy  alliance  which  had  so  long 
and  so  successfully  opposed  every  attempt  to  banish 
from  our  English  Sunday  the  gloom  which  had  come 
l  161 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

to  be  regarded  as  its  national  attribute.  Any  effort 
to  brighten  the  lives  of  those  who  toil  six  days  in 
the  week,  which  had  been  made  by  the  advocates 
of  Sweetness  and  Light,  had  been  opposed  by  the 
apostles  of  Brimstone  and  Brandy.  Only  a  few 
years  ago  any  movement  in  the  direction  of  what 
is  now  regarded  as  a  rational  Sunday  would  have 
been  denounced  as  little  short  of  a  new  gunpowder 
plot  to  undermine  the  British  Constitution,  only  to 
be  compared  in  its  anarchy  with  an  organised 
conspiracy  to  overthrow  the  tyranny  of  the  tall 
hat.  And  I  feel  no  little  pride  to  think  that  in 
casting  me  for  so  respectable  a  part  as  lecturer  this 
evening  you  will  be  able  to  knock  one  more  nail 
in  the  coffin  which  is  being  prepared  for  that  gentle- 
man in  black  beneath  whose  cassock  lurks  the 
apron  of  the  licensed  victualler. 

Any  reform  in  this  direction  will  only  be  brought 
about  by  individual  effort.  From  politicians  we 
can  look  for  no  active  help,  for  both  sides  unite 
in  bowing  their  heads  to  that  heathen  god,  the 
mighty  majority,  and  any  movement  to  do  away 
with  drunkenness  by  Act  of  Parliament  would  be 
regarded  as  an  interference  with  the  vested  inter- 
ests of  the  licensed  victualler.  What  indeed  is 
the  better  part  of  our  modern  Socialism  but  an 
appeal  to  the  State  for  protection  against  the 
tyranny  of  Liberal  institutions  ? 

I  have  sometimes  noticed,  in  wandering  through 

162 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

the  streets,  evidences  of  sweetness  and  light  in  the 
windows  of  the  toiling  poor,  in  the  shape  of  a 
consumptive  geranium  struggling  for  supremacy 
of  sunlight  with  a  sickly  nasturtium  ;  and  I  have 
daily  been  expecting  the  establishment  of  some 
avenging  society  for  banishing  this  strange  anomaly, 
this  almost  impertinent  love  of  colour  among  the 
working  classes ;  just  as  every  effort  is  being 
made  to  prevent  the  Sunday  opening  of  picture 
galleries,  museums,  and  sacred  concerts,  which 
bring  into  the  windows  of  the  souls  of  the  struggling 
millions  those  other  flowers  of  the  mind,  and 
harmony  into  the  hearts  of  those  "  who  never 
sing,  but  die  with  all  their  music  in  them."  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  these  influences  are 
no  less  humanising  than  is  the  godless  banging  of 
a  "  salvation  "  drum,  an  exercise  which  seems  to 
me  but  an  expression  of  that  strange  creed,  the 
worship  of  the  ugly,  to  epidemic  outbursts  of  which 
the  history  of  this  country  is  no  stranger.  And 
it  is  this  devotional  cult — the  worship  of  the  ugly, 
in  its  artistic  aspect — that  I  propose  to  take  as 
the  text  of  my  lecture  to-night. 

There  are  two  ways  of  dealing  with  abuses  : 
either  to  charge  them  down  with  the  lance  of 
chivalry,  or  to  bludgeon  them  with  ridicule. 
Whether  we  accept  the  knight-errantry  of  Don 
Quixote,  or  the  utilitarian  philosophy  of  his 
henchman,    is   a    matter   of   temperament ;     in   a 

163 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

public  discussion,  however,  it  is  perhaps  advis- 
able to  temper  the  ardour  of  the  knight-errant 
with  the  judicious  worldliness  of  a  Sancho  Panza, 
lest  in  taking  our  convictions  too  seriously  we 
should  be  laughed  at  for  our  pains ;  lest  the 
clumsy  heel  of  scorn  should  tread  on  the  sensitive 
toe  of  flippancy. 

If  for  a  moment  I  should  be  betrayed  into  a 
seriousness,  which  is  no  way  to  behave  in  the 
throes  of  a  dying  century,  I  hope  that  my  rapier 
will  be  baited  with  the  button  of  banter,  the  pangs 
of  vivisection  palliated  by  the  chloroform  of  cour- 
tesy, without  which  the  unwritten  laws  which 
govern  a  club  would  be  a  hollow  mockery,  and  with- 
out which  the  amenities  of  modern  criticism  might 
degenerate  into  personalities !  Far  be  it  from 
me  to  throw  into  a  peaceful  and  united  camp  of 
criticism  the  apple  of  discord  or  the  bone  of  con- 
tention. Yet  this  army,  united  as  it  is  in  one 
common  cause,  its  holy  crusade  against  the  Actor- 
Manager,  is  divided  into  creeds,  the  one  side 
championing  the  divine  right,  the  undying  laws 
of  an  artistic  monarchy,  the  other  leaning  towards 
the  republic  of  untrammelled  modernity  and 
artistic  emancipation.  You  are  all  familiar  with 
the  old  ballad  "  How  happy  could  I  be  with  either, 
were  t'other  dear  charmer  away."  Well,  in  that 
attitude  of  perplexed  hesitancy  stands  the  lover 
of  the  modern  drama. 

164 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

I  will  not  call  these  rival  creeds  the  old  school 
and  the  new,  for  it  seems  to  me  the  Right  knows 
no  school.  Art  is  the  same  in  all  ages,  and  Truth 
is  its  touchstone.  It  owes  its  birth  to  no  canons  ; 
on  the  contrary,  these  are  only  discovered  at  its 
autopsy.  The  Venus  of  Milo,  which  is  ever  new, 
was  evolved  from  no  artistic  rules — it  dictated 
them.  Let  us  escape  from  the  personal  by  calling 
the  rival  champions  Conservatives  and  Liberals. 
I  was  greatly  puzzled  a  short  time  ago,  on  being 
asked  by  an  energetic  political  agency  to  fill  up 
in  a  duly  printed  form  my  name,  address,  and 
politics.  After  much  self-communion,  I  arrived 
at  the  conclusion  that  I  was  an  Anti-Gladstonian 
Socialist,  and  so  I  filled  up  the  form.  Well,  that 
is  very  much  my  attitude  in  this  question  of 
dramatic  politics. 

And  surely,  whatever  charge  may  be  brought 
against  our  English  stage,  it  is  not  on  the  score 
of  its  lack  of  catholicity  that  it  can  be  attacked. 
In  matters  of  art  we  are  the  most  cosmopolitan 
of  nations :  here  the  art  of  every  country  is 
received  with  open  arms,  whether  it  be  expressed 
in  painting,  in  music,  or  in  drama.  Indeed,  we 
are,  if  anything,  too  prone  to  embrace  the  foreign 
— in  our  cultivation  of  the  exotic  orchid,  we  are 
apt  to  overlook  our  native  rose.  As  exponents 
of   dramatic   art,    we   are  accustomed   in   London 

165 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

to  receive  with  hospitality  the  actors  of  Italy, 
of  France,  of  Germany,  of  America,  of  Holland 
— ay,  and  of  Japan.  We  have  listened  to  the  dove- 
like cooings  of  a  French  Lady  Macbeth,  we  have 
been  spellbound  by  the  melodious  roar  of  an 
Italian  Othello,  we  have  admired  the  inspired 
gutturals  of  a  Germanic  Caesar.  In  the  matter  of 
stage  literature  we  are  no  less  cosmopolitan.  We 
have  been  dosed  with  adaptations  of  Palais  Royal 
farce,  we  have  sipped  the  narcotic  of  Parisian 
opera  bouffe,  we  have  nibbled  the  olive  of  French 
comedy.  We  have  recently  turned  our  attention 
to  the  Norwegian  realistic  drama — the  drama  of 
perpetual  night.  We  have  watched  with  a  curious 
scientific  interest  the  unfolding  of  that  strangely 
narrow,  but  none  the  less  human,  life  which  Ibsen 
has  laid  bare  with  such  unflinching  power,  with 
such  dexterous  butchery.  We  have  there  learned 
that  the  sordid  life  of  the  great  civilised  towns 
can  be  outstripped  in  its  ugliness  by  the  primitive 
bourgeoisie  of  a  Scandinavian  village.  We  have 
held  our  nostrils  while  our  gaze  has  been  riveted 
with  wonderment  and  awe  on  the  crawling  brood 
which  the  wand  of  this  pitiless  magician  stirred 
from  the  muddy  depths,  from  the  foetid  pools, 
of  a  sunless,  joyless  society.  We  have  drunk 
from  the  crisp  spring  of  Goethe's  Faust  and  Mar- 
guerite. And  more  recently  we  have  been  taught 
to  look  for  the  new  light  to  a  young  Flemish  writer. 

1 66 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

Ever  on  the  alert  for  a  new  saviour  of  the 
drama,  Mr.  William  Archer,  from  whom  one  is 
not  accustomed  to  superlatives,  has  embraced 
Maeterlinck  with  a  fervour  compared  with  which 
the  spiritual  exaltation  of  the  discoverer  of  a  new 
microbe  is  but  a  pale  and  sickly  sentiment. 

Maeterlinck's  published  works  consist  of  three 
pieces.  Of  these,  Les  Aveugles  is  a  weird  pot- 
pourri, which  cannot  be  defined  by  any  terms 
hitherto  known  to  dramatic  literature.  As,  how- 
ever, this  play  contains  thirteen  characters,  of  which 
twelve  are  blind,  it  would  be  superfluous  to  discuss 
it  as  an  acting  drama,  and  so  we  may  respectfully 
relegate  it  to  the  bookshelves  of  literary  curios. 

Vlrdruse,  a  one-act  drama,  seems  to  me  as 
striking  in  subject  as  it  is  original  and  forcible  in 
treatment,  though  its  merit  is  perhaps  rather 
literary  than  dramatic.  It  might  indeed  be  ren- 
dered effective  on  the  stage  by  a  company  of 
sympathetic  players,  though  the  suspended  agony 
is  perhaps  too  long  drawn  out  to  hold  the  spectator 
spellbound  throughout.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
imagine  a  more  finely  wrought-out  scene  than 
that  describing  the  intrusion  of  Death  into  the 
sick-chamber.  A  young  mother,  who  has  just 
passed  through  her  confinement,  is  lying  in  the 
adjoining  room  ;  the  anxious  family  is  awaiting 
the  visit  of  a  near  relative  ;  the  conversation  is 
carried  on  in  a  hushed  tone  : 

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Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

The  Father.   You  see  nothing  coming,  Ursula? 

The  Daughter.  Nothing,  father. 

The  Father.  Not  in  the  avenue  ?  You  can  see  the 
avenue  ? 

The  Daughter.  Yes,  father  ;  the  moon  is  shining, 
and  I  can  see  down  the  avenue  right  to  the  cypress 
grove. 

The  Grandfather  [who  is  blind].  And  you  see  no 
one,  Ursula  ? 

The  Daughter.  No  one,  grandfather. 

The  Uncle.   Is  the  night  fine  ? 

The  Daughter.  Very    fine ;     do    you    hear    the 
nightingales  ? 

The  Uncle.  Yes,  yes. 

The  Daughter.  A  breath  of  wind  is  stirring  in  the 
avenue. 

The  Grandfather.  A  breath  of  wind  in  the  avenue, 
Ursula  ? 

The  Daughter.  Yes ;  the  trees  are  shivering  a 
little. 

The  Uncle.  It  is  strange  that  my  sister  is  not  here 
yet. 

The  Grandfather.  I  no  longer  hear  the  nightingales, 
Ursula. 

The  Daughter.  I  think  some  one  has  entered  the 
garden,  grandfather. 

The  Grandfather.  Who  is  it  ? 

The  Daughter.   I  cannot  tell ;    I  see  no  one. 

The  Uncle.  There  is  no  one. 

The  Daughter.  There  must  be  some  one  in 
the  garden :  the  nightingales  ceased  singing  sud- 
denly. 

The  Uncle.  But  I  hear  no  footsteps. 

The  Daughter.  Some  one  must  be  passing  by  the 
pond,  for  the  swans  are  frightened. 

1 68 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

The  Father.  You  see  no  one  ? 

The  Daughter.  No  one,  father. 

The  Father.  Yet  the  pond  must  be  in  the  moon- 
light. 

The  Daughter.  Yes  ;  I  can  see  that  the  swans  are 
frightened. 

The  Uncle.  I  am  sure  it  is  my  sister  that  has 
frightened  them.  She  must  have  come  in  by  the 
wicket-gate. 

The  Father.  I  cannot  understand  why  the  dogs  do 
not  bark. 

The  Daughter.  I  see  the  watch-dog  crouched  in 
the  inmost  corner  of  his  kennel.  The  swans  are  flying 
towards  the  other  bank. 

The  Uncle.  They  are  afraid  of  my  sister.  Let  me 
see.     [He  calls.]     Sister  !    sister  I     Is  it  you  ? 

[No  one  answers. 

The  Daughter.  I  am  sure  some  one  has  entered  the 
garden.     You  will  see. 

The  Uncle.     But  she  would  answer  me  1 

The  Grandfather.  Are  not  the  nightingales  be- 
ginning to  sing  again,  Ursula  ? 

The  Daughter.  I  cannot  hear  one,  even  in  the 
distance. 

The  Grandfather.  Yet  there  is  no  noise  to  disturb 
them. 

The  Father.  The  night  is  silent  as  death. 

The  Grandfather.  It  must  have  been  some 
stranger  that  frightened  them  ;  if  it  had  been  one  of 
the  family  they  would  not  have  ceased  singing. 

The  Daughter.  I  see  one  on  the  great  weeping 
willow.     He  has  flown  away  1 

***** 

[Suddenly  the  sound  of  the  sharpening  of  a  scythe  is  heard.] 
The  Grandfather  [starting].  Oh  I 

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Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

The  Uncle.  Ursula,  what  is  that  ? 

The  Daughter.  1  cannot  tell  ;  I  think  it  is  the 
gardener.  I  do  not  see  clearly  ;  he  is  in  the  shadow 
of  the  house. 

The  Father.  It  is  the  gardener  going  to  mow  the 
grass. 

The  Uncle.  Does  he  mow  in  the  dark  ? 

The  Father.  Is  not  to-morrow  Sunday  ?  Yes,  I 
noticed  that  the  grass  around  the  house  was  very  long. 

The  Grandfather.  His  scythe  seems  to  make  such 
a  noise 

The  Daughter.    He  is  moving  close  to  the  house. 

The  Grandfather.  Do  you  see  him,  Ursula  ? 

The  Daughter.  No,  grandfather ;  he  is  in  the 
shadow. 

The  Grandfather.  I  am  afraid  he  will  awaken 
my  daughter. 

The  Uncle.  We  can  scarcely  hear  him  at  all. 

The  Grandfather.  I  hear  him  as  though  he  were 
mowing  in  the  house. 

The  intruder  was  Death. — Here  was  a  gem,  a 
vivid  flash  of  that  imagination  which  is  the  most 
precious  ingredient  in  a  work  of  art.  A  dramatic 
author,  however,  cannot  claim  to  be  judged  by 
his  one-act  efforts  ;  it  is  his  more  ambitious 
works  by  which  he  must  stand  or  fall.  Of  Maeter- 
linck's works  the  most  ambitious  is  a  five-act 
tragedy  called  La  Princesse  Maleine,  and  it  is 
with  this  work  that  I  propose  to  deal  chiefly  in 
endeavouring  to  arrive  at  an  estimate  of  this 
author's  claims  to  rank  with  the  highest  dramatists. 

It  should  be  remembered  that  this  work  has 

170 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

been  described  by  M.  Mirbeau,  Maeterlinck's 
panegyrist,  as  containing  "  things  more  beautiful 
than  the  most  beautiful  things  in  Shakespeare." 
One  cannot  escape  the  reflection  that  M.  Mirbeau 
had  either  not  read  his  Shakespeare,  or  that  he  had 
not  read  his  Maeterlinck.  His  eulogy  of  Maeter- 
linck seems  to  me  indeed  a  truly  Boulevardian 
conception  of  greatness.  If  there  be  a  resemblance 
between  the  living  and  the  dead,  it  seems  to  me 
that  Maeterlinck  is  a  great  deal  more  like  Shake- 
speare than  Shakespeare  is  like  Maeterlinck. 

In  Act  i.  of  Princesse  Maleine  it  is  shown  how 
old  Hjalmar  (king  of  one  part  of  Holland)  has 
fallen  in  love  with  the  dethroned  Queen  Anne  of 
Jutland  (a  kind  of  Lady  Macbeth).  The  Princess 
Maleine  (an  Ophelia-like  maiden)  is  the  daughter  of 
Marcellus  (king  of  another  part  of  Holland),  and 
she  in  turn  is  in  love  with  young  Hjalmar  (son  of 
the  old  king).  To  their  union,  however,  Marcellus 
is  strongly  opposed,  owing  to  a  feud  between  him- 
self and  King  Hjalmar.  A  war  ensues  between 
the  two  kings.  Marcellus  is  killed,  and  the  sur- 
rounding villages  are  in  flames.  Meantime  (we 
are  still  in  Act  i.),  young  Hjalmar  has  become 
betrothed,  through  the  designs  of  the  wicked  Queen 
Anne,  to  that  lady's  daughter,  Uglyane. 

In  Act  ii.  Maleine  is  wandering  with  her  attendant 
(like  another  Rosalind)  in  the  forest,  in  search  of 
Hjalmar's  home.     The  ladies  meet  with  peasants, 

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Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

and  one  of  these  (a  cowherd,  and  evidently  no  gentle- 
man) casually  announces  his  intention  of  bathing. 
The  following  conversation  takes  place : 

Peasant.  I  am  going  to  bathe. 

Nurse.  To  bathe  ? 

Peasant.  Yes  ;    I  am  going  to  undress  here. 

Nurse.  Before  us  ? 

Peasant.   Yes. 

Nurse  [to  Maleine].  Come  away. 

This  original  situation  is  here  interrupted  by 
the  entrance  of  Prince  Hjalmar.  It  is  the  eve  of 
his  nuptials  with  Uglyane  ;  he  (Hjalmar)  does  not 
recognise  Maleine,  but  his  companion  suggests  that 
she  would  be  a  good  attendant  to  Uglyane.  We 
subsequently  find  Maleine  waiting  upon  Uglyane 
in  this  capacity.  After  constant  changes  of 
scenery,  we  are  in  a  park,  where  Prince  Hjalmar 
has  an  appointment  to  meet  Uglyane,  but  Maleine 
goes  in  her  stead,  Hjalmar  in  the  darkness  imagining 
her  to  be  his  betrothed.     Then  ensues  a  love  scene. 

The  following  is  a  literal  translation  of  one 
passage : 

Maleine.  I  am  frightened. 

Hjalmar.  But  we  are  in  the  park. 

Maleine.  Are  there  walls  round  the  park  ? 

Hjalmar.  Yes,  there  are  walls  round  the  park,  and 
moats. 

Maleine.  And  no  one  can  enter  ? 

Hjalmar.  No  ;  but  many  strange  things  enter  all 
the  same. 

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Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

Maleixe.  My  nose  is  bleeding  ! 

Hjalmar.  Your  nose  is  bleeding  ? 

Maleine.  Yes  ;    where  is  my  handkerchief  ? 

Hjalmar.  Let  us  go  to  the  basin. 

Maleine.  Oh  !    my  dress  is  saturated  with  blood. 

Hjalmar.  Uglyane  !    Uglyanc  1      Has  it  stopped  ? 

Maleine.  Yes.  [A  silence. 

To  attempt  to  criticise  a  passage  so  sublime  in  its 
banality  would  be  sacrilege.  There  it  must  stand, 
a  monument  to  itself,  silencing  the  commentator, 
and  paralysing  the  uplifted  hand  of  the  iconoclast. 
The  nose-bleeding  to  which  Maeterlinck's  heroine 
is  addicted  is  indeed  puzzling  to  the  primitive 
observer  of  nature. 

The  spectator  is  at  once  on  the  alert.  Some 
dramatic  development  will  surely  be  the  outcome 
of  this  novel  symptom  of  love.  If,  for  instance, 
the  hero  were  by  these  means  to  track  the  object 
of  his  affections  to  some  lonely  spot  to  which  she 
had  been  lured  by  the  villain,  the  expedient  of  the 
bleeding  nose  might  not  only  be  commended  for  its 
daring,  but  would  have  the  additional  recommenda- 
tion of  sanity.  But  it  is  no  such  vulgar  purpose 
which  our  latter-day  dramatist  has  in  view  ;  he 
introduces  the  incident  purely  for  its  own  sake, 
and  by  way  of  making  his  heroine  consistent  in 
this  expression  of  emotion,  the  author  subjects 
her,  in  her  death  struggles,  to  the  same  symptoms, 
regardless  of  the  physical  limitations  of  his  actress. 
But    there    is     another    habit    to    which    Macter- 

i73 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

linck's  characters  appear  to  be  addicted  with  a 
startling  unanimity.  They  will  talk  about  the 
weather — indeed,  amongst  the  creations  of  this 
author  meteorological  observations  appear  to  be 
a  very  general  topic  of  conversation. 

But  to  return  to  the  play.  In  Act  iii.  Hjalmar 
appears  to  be  again  betrothed  to  Maleine,  but  the 
wicked  Queen  Anne  has  a  perfect  passion  for 
poisoning,  and  we  feel  that  Maleine  is  not  safe. 
Old  King  Hjalmar  (a  sort  of  unscrupulous  King 
Lear)  is  beginning  to  feel  uncomfortable  at  the 
multitude  of  crimes  into  which  he  is  plunged  by 
his  designing  guest,  whose  poisoning  propensities 
cause  him  no  little  anxietv. 

In  Act  iv.  we  find  that  preparations  are  on 
foot  for  the  nuptials  of  Prince  Hjalmar  and  Maleine, 
and  then  ensues  a  scene  in  which  the  King  and 
Queen  determine  to  strangle  her,  the  poisoning 
having  failed.  There  are  fine  dramatic  touches 
here.  The  wind  is  howling,  the  hail  is  beating 
in  at  the  window,  while  the  Queen  strangles  poor 
Maleine  ;  at  the  supreme  moment,  the  grinning 
face  of  the  Court  fool  appears  at  the  open  window. 
The  King  promptly  kills  this  witness  of  the  crime, 
and  the  fool  falls  into  the  moat  below,  his  dying 
gurglings  being  heard  through  the  window.  The 
King  is  in  an  agony  of  terror  ;  Maleine's  dog  is 
scratching  at  the  door  ;  then  nuns  are  heard  chant- 
ing a  Latin  hymn,  but  they  pass  away  into  the 

174 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

distance.  A  knocking  is  heard  at  the  locked  door 
— it  is  the  nurse's  voice  ;  presently  she  is  joined 
by  Hjalmar.  The  King  and  Queen  escape  from 
the  room  by  another  door,  and  Hjalmar  and  the 
nurse  are  left  outside. 

In  Act  v.  the  elements  play  the  chief  role.  The 
old  King  is  dying,  and  is  on  the  verge  of  madness. 
Hjalmar  and  the  nurse  discover  that  Maleine  is 
killed,  and  seeing  the  dead  fool  outside,  they  imagine 
that  he  has  done  the  deed.  The  King,  however, 
confesses  that  he  and  the  Queen  are  the  murderers. 
Hjalmar  stabs  the  Queen,  and  then  kills  himself. 
The  King,  left  behind,  demented,  asks  for  salad. 
He  then  goes  out,  leaning  on  the  nurse.  This 
practically  ends  the  play.  All  the  persons  leave 
the  stage,  with  the  exception  of  the  seven  nuns, 
who  chant  a  miserere  while  they  place  the  bodies 
on  the  bed.  The  bells  leave  off  tolling  ;  the  night- 
ingales are  heard  ;  a  cock  perches  at  the  open 
window  and  crows,  while  the  curtain  falls.  Difficult 
as  it  would  be  to  realise  to  the  full  the  effect  of 
these  stage  instructions,  owing  to  the  limited 
adaptability  of  a  barn-door  fowl  to  the  exigencies 
of  the  stage,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  closing 
scenes  breathe  a  dramatic  instinct ;  indeed,  through- 
out the  play  we  are  reminded  of  this  quality.  I 
do  not  maintain  that  M.  Maeterlinck's  work  is 
lacking  in  fine  moments,  but  that  he  abounds  in 
very  bad  quarters  of  an  hour. 

*75 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

It  would  indeed  be  difficult  to  excel  the  pictur- 
esqueness  of  certain  passages  in  this  play.  And 
it  is  this  quality  of  picturesqucness  which  to  my 
mind  distinguishes  the  Belgian  author.  Our 
author,  however,  forgets  that  the  picturesque 
is  not  the  end  and  aim  of  dramatic  art,  but  rather 
the  vehicle  to  be  employed  towards  that  end. 
Cleverness  of  technique  is  too  often  regarded  as 
the  highest  aim  of  art.  The  great  thought,  the 
noble  purpose,  the  poetic  thrill,  are,  according  to 
the  fashionable  artistic  cant,  pooh-poohed,  to 
the  glorification  of  cleverness  of  execution.  Thus 
the  pictures  of  a  great  imaginative  artist  are  often 
glibly  condemned  by  those  who  prefer  a  cocotte 
by  Van  Beers  to  a  Madonna  by  Watts. 

The  stage  demands  a  wider  sweep  of  life,  a 
larger  range  of  observation  than  is  suspected 
by  the  literary  pedant.  The  drama  in  neutral 
tints  is  an  anomaly,  and  will  be  to  the  end  of 
time. 

It  is  maintained  by  litterateurs  that  the  drama 
is  but  an  offshoot  of  literature.  It  might  be  argued 
with  equal  plausibility  that  literature  is  an  offshoot 
of  the  drama.  The  drama  is  the  most  compre- 
hensive of  the  arts,  for  it  enlists  all  the  other  arts 
in  its  service — the  art  of  letters,  of  painting,  of 
dancing,  of  music,  of  sculpture,  and — the  art  of 
advertising.     Social   politics   have  almost  become 

176 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

a  necessity  of  existence.  In  its  most  triumphant 
moments  advertising  may  be  defined  as  the  art 
of  imposing  on  others  what  you  have  ceased  to 
believe  yourself.  It  is  no  secret  that  there  are 
moments  in  the  career  of  most  actor-managers — 
ay,  even  of  author-managers — when  advertisement 
helps  art  over  the  stile.  In  a  restless  paragraphic 
age,  when  the  silent  worker  often  breaks  his 
heart,  let  no  one  look  with  contempt  on  this  great 
propelling  force  ;  but  a  force  which,  like  electricity 
itself,  kills  in  the  misapplication.  Nor  must  it  be 
supposed  that  this  art  is  one  of  entirely  modern 
growth.  There  exists  a  picture  of  an  eminent 
actor  of  the  last  century — published,  it  is  said, 
during  his  lifetime — in  which  he  is  represented  as 
being  wafted  by  two  trumpeting  angels  to  heaven, 
where  Shakespeare,  humbly  bowing,  receives  him 
with  doffed  hat  and  "  I-hope-I-don't-intrude " 
expression.  Let  no  man  call  himself  great  until 
he  has  corrected  the  proof-sheets  of  his  own 
obituary  notices. 

As  to  this  cry  for  a  literary  drama,  by  all  means 
let  the  drama  be  literary,  but  first  let  it  be  dramatic. 
The  drama  has  a  literature  of  its  own.  Mere  fine 
writing  cannot  make  a  good  play.  It  cannot  be 
denied  that  a  certain  kind  of  play  has  long  held  the 
boards  which  is  not  intellectual,  and  which  cannot 
in  any  sense  claim  to  be  literary.  This  kind  of  play 
is  fast  disappearing  from  our  stage,  and  its  scattered 

M  177 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

remnants  will  in  all  probability  entirely  vanish 
before  the  march  of  free  education.  People  go  to 
the  theatre  primarily  to  see  play-acting,  and  the 
first  requirement  of  a  play  is  that  it  shall  be  actable 
— that  it  shall,  in  fact,  be  dramatic.  Many  an 
unliterary  play  has  been  saved  by  good  acting,  but 
no  bad  acting  can  be  saved  by  good  literature.  It 
may  be  frankly  admitted  that  many  an  indifferent 
work  has  met  with  success.  But  when  I  hear  all 
this  outcry  against  those  in  office  by  those  who  are 
not,  I  cheerfully  reply  :  "  Where  is  the  play  pro- 
duced in  recent  years  which  has  failed  from  being 
too  good  ?  Where  is  the  play  which  has  failed 
because  it  was  good  literature  ?  "  There  have,  of 
course,  been  plays  of  fine  literary  flavour  which 
have  given  their  author  many  months  of  fruitless 
toil  ;  but  if  we  look  carefully  we  shall  find  the 
little  rift  somewhere,  just  as  the  most  skilful  bell- 
founder  may  find  his  bell  cracked  and  his  music 
mute.  In  such  plays  we  find  the  sympathy  mis- 
placed ;  the  centre  of  gravity  has  somehow  been 
dislodged.  And  it  is  precisely  this  nice  adjustment 
of  sympathy,  this  instinctive  dramatic  poise,  this 
sublime  humour,  which  in  the  dramatist  we  call 
genius.  A  microscopic  examination  may  reveal 
the  most  perfect  workmanship — the  most  accurate 
drawing.  But  stand  back  from  the  picture,  subject 
it  to  the  larger  perspective  of  the  stage,  the  work 
fails  to  satisfy,  its  defects  become  apparent — the 

178 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

heart-beats  of  a  multitude  have  felt  its  unhumanity. 
The  play  was  literary — it  was  not  dramatic.  Rail 
at  it  as  you  will,  the  first  merit  of  a  play  is  that  it 
shall  satisfy  the  artistic  conscience  of  an  audience. 
By  the  blessed  re-adjustment  of  the  laws  of  copy- 
right there  still  remains  this  comfort  to  a  dis- 
appointed author,  he  can  print  his  play,  he  can 
send  it  to  his  friends,  and  he  can  append  a  foot- 
note to  the  effect  that  it  was  too  good  for  the 
public.  Does  an  audience  disenjoy  TJie  School  for 
Scandal  because  it  is  literary  ?  No ;  but  that 
wondrous  comedy  would  not  have  had  its  abiding 
hold  over  each  succeeding  generation  had  it  not 
possessed  a  story  which  appealed  to  the  heart — 
a  plot  that  engaged  the  sympathies  of  the  specta- 
tors. It  is  a  matter  for  congratulation,  for  which 
the  dramatic  Liberals,  or  advanced  school,  are  in  no 
small  measure  responsible,  that  nowadays  plays  are 
produced  and  listened  to  with  respect  which  only 
a  few  years  ago  it  would  have  been  little  short  of 
madness  to  put  upon  the  stage.  The  drama 
covers  a  wider  area  of  life.  W.  S.  Gilbert's  young 
lady  of  fifteen  is  growing  up. 

What  I  maintain  is,  that  the  work  of  exotic 
writers  will  not  hold  a  permanent  place  upon  our 
stage,  for,  interesting  though  it  be,  it  can  only  be 
a  transient  phase.  It  cannot  be  expected  to  take 
its  place  as  a  permanent  and  native  growth.  It 
serves,  however,  as  an  admirable  manure  for  the 

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Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

future,  a  dunghill  from  which  many  a  fair  flower  of 
the  drama  may  bloom. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  depreciate  the  admirable 
influence  which  the  exploitation  of  foreign  works 
has  exercised,  and  will  continue  to  exercise,  over 
our  own  theatre.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  belittle 
the  service  which  certain  writers  have  rendered  our 
contemporary  stage  in  clamouring  for  a  wider  field 
of  action,  for  a  more  realistic  dramatic  literature. 
We  should  applaud  their  enthusiasm,  even  if  we 
think  it  exaggerated  and  at  times  misplaced. 

Nor  should  we  forget  to-day  the  work  of  those 
other  enthusiasts  who  stood  by  the  drama  in  its 
period  of  storm  and  stress,  who  upheld  its  dignity, 
and  untiringly  advocated  its  claims  to  take  a  high 
place  among  the  arts.  To  these  our  dramatists  owe 
no  small  debt  of  gratitude,  while  the  beneficial 
influence  they  exercised  over  the  acting  of  our 
time  is  equally  not  to  be  forgotten.  Who  shall 
deny  the  impetus  which  histrionic  art  received  from 
them,  not  only  by  public  encouragement,  but  no 
less  by  unflinching  and  persistent  criticism  ?  At  a 
time  of  artistic  lethargy  into  which  our  stage  had 
fallen,  it  was  roused  into  healthy  action  by  the 
rivalry  with  foreign  actors,  whose  superiority  was 
proclaimed  persistently  by  these  writers.  In  our 
hurry  to  upset  what  we  consider  the  canons  of 
convention,  let  us  beware  lest  we  set  up  the  canons 
of  anarchy. 

180 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

For  my  own  part  I  view  these  heated  discus- 
sions with  satisfaction.  I  regard  these  volcanic 
mutterings  as  a  sign  of  latent  fire.  It  is  only  by 
strife  that  great  things  are  accomplished.  For  in 
our  lesser  world,  as  in  the  larger  universe,  "  all 
subsists  by  elemental  strife,  and  passions  are  the 
elements  of  life." 

Nor  is  it  from  want  of  recruits  that  the  drama 
can  be  said  to  be  languishing.  One  of  the  most 
interesting  hallucinations  to  which  the  human 
species  of  both  sexes  is  prone,  is  the  conviction  that 
anyone  can  act  and  that  everyone  can  write  a  play. 
That  is  a  fallacy.  A  short  time  ago  I  received  a 
letter  informing  me  that  the  writer  was  a  house 
decorator  by  trade,  but  that  as  circumstances  over 
which  he  had  no  control  had  recently  subjected 
him  to  epileptic  fits,  he  would  be  glad  to  take  a 
part  in  my  next  production.  He  added  that  he 
had  a  strong  taste  for  the  literary  drama,  of 
which  indeed  he  had  several  samples  on  hand. 
The  letter  concluded  thus  :  "  To  prove  to  you 
that  I  am  not  lacking  in  dramatic  instinct,  I  enclose 
a  newspaper  cutting,  which  please  return."  Under- 
lined in  red  ink  I  read  these  words  :  "  The  prisoner, 
who  denied  the  assault,  conducted  his  own  case, 
and  defended  himself  in  a  somewhat  dramatic 
manner. ." 

It  is  no  longer  the  fashion  for  the  cultivated  and 

181 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

fastidious  to  hold  aloof  from  the  theatre,  and 
"  quite  superior  persons  '  do  not  deny  the  soft 
impeachment  of  flirting  with  the  Muse.  Thanks, 
indeed,  to  the  platonic  but  enervating  blandish- 
ments of  dilettante  patrons  of  the  stage,  the  drama 
runs  the  danger  of  being  refined  away  until  it 
reaches  its  apex  in  a  vanishing  point. 

There  is  a  certain  kind  of  literary  dandy  who 
would  banish  all  that  is  healthy,  all  that  is  beautiful 
from  the  stage,  and  substitute  in  their  place  that 
kind  of  art  which  is  the  outcome  of  an  over-sated 
civilisation,  an  art  which  finds  a  parallel  expression 
in  those  weirdly  stomachic  examples  of  Japanese 
art  which  leer  at  us  through  the  shop  windows  of 
Regent  Street.  It  is  not  from  the  ranks  of  these 
that  the  drama  will  be  vitalised.  These  lisping 
Rabelaisians,  mistaking  indecency  for  passion,  lash 
themselves  into  a  state  of  impotent  frenzy,  and, 
with  an  ardour  which  is  almost  alcoholic,  sip  their 
inspiration  from  the  pellucid  depths  of  a  lemon- 
squash. 

If  it  be  indeed  the  function  of  art  to  give  us 
nature  in  all  its  crudeness,  the  accidental  truth  of 
the  reporter  rather  than  the  greater  truth  of  the 
poet,  then  it  is  obvious  that  the  theatre  is  but  an 
excrescence  on  our  social  system.  For  we  can  find 
our  romances  free  of  charge  in  the  law  courts,  we 
can  look  for  our  love  stories  in  the  columns  of  the 
Illustrated  Police  News,  for  our  philosophy  in  the 

182 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

gutter,  for  our  heroism  in  a  street  brawl,  and  we 
can  exercise  our  tragic  emotions  in  the  precincts  of 
the  Morgue  or  in  the  wards  of  a  hospital.  If  I  may 
take  as  an  illustration  a  play  that  was  recently 
produced,  it  seemed  to  me  that  Therese  Raquin  was 
the  work  of  an  impassioned  photographer  rather 
than  that  of  an  imaginative  artist.  I  confess  to 
being  attracted  by  this  morbid  play,  but  how  much 
wider  would  have  been  the  sphere  of  its  influence 
if  with  the  woof  of  realism  the  golden  thread  of 
poetic  imagination  had  been  intertwined  !  I  believe 
that  such  works  serve  their  purpose  in  literature,  as 
recording  the  impressions  of  a  certain  society  on 
the  mind  of  a  great  writer.  I  deny  that  the  stage 
is  the  most  suitable  vehicle  for  their  exhibition. 
This  striking  drama  is  a  modernised  version  of 
Macbeth.  But  mark  the  difference  of  treatment. 
In  the  one  the  highest  emotions  are  stirred  ;  in  the 
other  we  are  assisting  at  a  post-mortem  examina- 
tion. One  man  will  paint  blood  trickling  down 
marble  steps  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  one  exclaim 
'  Ah  !  "  Another  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  one 
exclaim  "  Ueh  !  " 


to' 


We  have  heard  a  good  deal  about  an  Independent 
Theatre,  which  was  established,  I  understand,  for 
the  purpose  of  sweeping  from  the  stage  that  usurp- 
ing intruder  the  actor-manager,  to  whose  baneful 
and  withering  influence   have  been  attributed  all 

183 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

the  ills  which  dramatic  flesh  is  heir  to.  What  has 
been  the  outcome  of  this  agitation  ?  What  has 
become  of  the  maternal  Muse,  so  pregnant  in 
promise,  so  abortive  in  performance  ?  What  has 
been  the  output  of  this  magnificent  machinery  ? 
In  his  mind's  eye  the  patentee  of  this  artistic 
Utopia  saw  the  little  dramatic  fledglings  nestling 
fondly  round  their  parent  incubator.  Everything 
was  perfect — only  the  eggs  were  missing  ;  or  at 
least  they  were  what  the  late  Mr.  Middlewick  used 
to  call  "  shop  'uns."  An  ingenious  analyst  will 
be  able  to  produce  an  oval-shaped  something  which 
shall  contain  all  the  chemical  properties  of  an  egg. 
He  may  sit  on  his  egg  till  Doomsday,  but  he  will 
never  hatch  it. 

Again,  we  heard  lately  of  the  admirable  in- 
tentions of  a  London  manager,  who  announced 
his  policy  of  setting  aside  one  evening  in  the  week 
for  productions  other  than  the  piece  then  running. 
By  these  means  the  manager  thought  that  he 
would  be  able  to  produce  the  works  of  hitherto 
unknown  authors.  But  what  was  the  result  ? 
Somehow  the  scheme  did  not  work.  True  it  is 
that  several  interesting  revivals  took  place,  and 
one  piece,  the  merits  and  demerits  of  which  were 
somewhat  hotly  discussed  over  the  prostrate  body 
of  the  manager,  was  produced.  But  the  scheme 
did  not  meet  with  much  encouragement  from  the 
press,  who  promptly  satirised  it  as  quixotic,  and 

184 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

dubbed  these  special  evenings  "  Unpopular  Mon- 
days." I  am  told  that  the  manager  diplomatically 
attributed  the  cessation  of  this  ambitious  enter- 
prise to  failing  health.  Strange  that  such  a  "  very 
fiery  particle  should  let  itself  be  snuffed  out  by  an 
article  !  " 

It  would  be  idle  to  deny  that  the  system  of  long 
runs  is,  in  some  of  its  aspects,  detrimental  to  the 
best  interests  of  art ;    though  we  must  not  forget, 
even  on  this  point,  that  the  assurance  of  a  sustained 
run  has  enabled  both  manager  and  actor  to  bestow 
upon  their  work  a  measure  of  care  and  refinement 
which  is  not  possible  under  the  conditions  of  a 
constantly    shifting    programme.     A    manager    is, 
alas  !    bound  to  keep  one  eye  on  his  exchequer, 
and  the  exchequer  demands  that  a  successful  play 
shall  run  its  course.     It  happens  sometimes  that, 
in   his   attempt  to   evade   the   quicksands   of   the 
Bankruptcy  Court,   the   manager  perishes   in  the 
stagnant  waters  of  commercialism.     It  is  obvious 
that  it  is  desirable  that  a  manager  should  be  freed 
from  these  sordid  considerations,  and  I  believe  that 
in  almost  every  country  but  England  the  theatres 
are    State-subventioned.      It    is    an    open    ques- 
tion,   however,    in    a   country   in    which    individ- 
ualism in  all  departments  has  taken  strong  root, 
and  where  State  encouragement  or  interference  is 
looked  upon  askance — whether  a  national  or  sub- 
sidised theatre  would  be  for  the  ultimate  benefit 

185 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

of  the  community.  Personally,  I  incline  to  the 
belief  that  any  drawbacks  of  a  subsidised  system 
would  be  greatly  outweighed  by  its  benefits. 
It  must  be  confessed,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
experiences  in  France  and  other  countries  do  not 
tend  to  show  that  the  State-subsidised  theatres 
are  in  touch  with  the  age ;  indeed,  the  State 
machinery  is  liable  to  have  grown  somewhat 
rusty. 

In  the  absence  of  conditions  which  are  not 
likely  to  prevail  here,  to  whom,  then,  can  we  turn 
for  the  advance  of  those  interests  which  all  of  us 
have  at  heart  ?  It  seems  to  be  taken  for  granted 
that  the  artist  is  the  one  person  who  is  indifferent 
to  the  claims  of  his  art.  With  a  lofty  disregard  of 
history,  certain  writers  are  never  tired  of  dinning 
into  the  ears  of  the  public  this  remarkable  paradox, 
hallowed  only  by  print.  It  must  be  confessed  that 
the  public  on  their  part  show  no  inclination  to 
prefer  the  claims  of  the  commercial  or  the  literary- 
scientific  manager,  who  are  patiently  waiting  their 
turn,  while  the  storm  rages  fiercely  round  the 
actor-manager,  who  stands  amid  it  all,  immovable 
as  the  Pyramids,  as  imperturbable  as  a  perennial 
"  Aunt  Sally." 

We  are  told  by  some  that  the  drama  is  mori- 
bund. We  are  told  that  enthusiasm  is  dead,  and 
artistic  enterprise  an  affair  of  £  s.   d.     I  am  so 

186 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

bold  as  to  contend  that  there  never  was  a  time 
when  our  art  exercised  a  greater  sway  over  the 
public  ;  there  never  was  a  time  when  literature 
devoted  itself  with  greater  zeal  to  its  discussion  ; 
there  never  was  a  time  of  greater  artistic  striving 
than  the  present.  And  I  am  yet  bolder  in  affirming 
that  the  best  work  which  has  been  done  for  our 
art  in  the  past  has  been  done  by  men  in  my  own 
position.  If  it  is  well  to  be  modest  about  oneself, 
it  is  permitted  to  be  proud  of  one's  comrades  ; 
and  I  confidently  maintain,  in  asking  you  to 
glance  back  at  the  record  of  the  past,  that  it  is 
the  workers  in  our  own,  as  in  all  other  arts,  who 
have  at  all  times  upheld  its  best  interests,  its  fair 
fame,  its  highest  ideals.  Not  to  go  farther  back, 
the  memory  of  many  who  are  here  to-night  will 
supply  the  names  of  those  who  have  been  illustrious 
in  the  advancement  of  our  art  during  the  last  fifty 
years.  Among  such  names  are  those  of  William 
Charles  Macready,  Charles  Kean,  Phelps,  Henry 
Irving,  Bancroft,  and  John  Hare.  And  I  am  still 
so  bold  as  to  predict  that  the  examples  set  by  these 
men  will  be  followed  by  their  successors  in  art.  If 
their  enthusiasm  lag,  then  let  others  come  on  and 
take  up  the  standard  ;  the  fittest  will  survive. 
The  field  is  open  to  all,  for  happily  art  knows 
no  vested  interests.  It  is  but  beating  the  air  to 
rail  at  the  star-system,  for  that  system  is  based 
upon  a   law   of  nature — the    happy  inequality  of 

187 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

man.     Is    not   all    humanity    run    upon   the   star- 
system  ? 

I  maintain  that  it  is  a  fallacy  to  suppose  that 
those  eternal  conditions  which  have  governed  art 
can  be  upset,  any  more  than  can  those  which 
have  governed  nature.  So  long  as  men  are  men 
and  women  are  women,  so  long  will  they  look  to 
art  to  hold  up  to  them  that  flattering  mirror  in 
which  they  can  see  themselves  idealised.  In  an 
age  when  faith  is  tinged  with  philosophic  doubt, 
when  love  is  regarded  as  but  a  spasm  of  the  nervous 
system,  and  joy  itself  but  as  the  refrain  of  a  music- 
hall  song,  I  believe  that  it  is  still  the  function 
of  art  to  give  us  light  rather  than  darkness.  Its 
teaching  should  not  be  to  taunt  us  with  our 
descent  from  the  monkeys,  but  rather  to  remind 
us  of  our  affinity  with  the  angels.  Its  mission  is 
not  to  lead  us  through  the  fogs  of  doubt  into  the 
bogs  of  despair,  but  rather  to  point,  even  in  the 
twilight  of  a  waning  century,  to  the  greater  light 
beyond. 


AFTER-THOUGHT 

We  live  to  learn  and  learn  to  live. 
It  would  be  a  pity  if  age  did  not  ripen  judgment 
and    broaden    sympathy.     The    mind    even    of   an 

188 


Fallacies  of  the  Modern  Stage 

actor-manager  progresses,  though  he  may  haply 
retain  an  undiminished  faculty  of  provoking  the 
critics,  as  must  all  vital  art.  Mediocrity  makes  us 
wondrous  kind! 

This  essay  seems  to  me  now  to  contain  certain 
harshnesses  of  expression  in  regard  to  a  writer  whose 
later  work  inspires  a  whole-hearted  admiration.  Or 
is  it  that  the  genius  of  Maeterlinck  has  emerged  from 
its  tentative  endeavour  into  a  larger  area  of  accom- 
plishment, and  soared  into  a  wider  realm  of  imagina- 
tion ?  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  am  content  to  let  the 
written  word  stand,  and  I  cannot  do  better  than 
shelter  myself  behind  the  dictum  of  an  eminent  modern 
writer : 

"  Not  that  I  agree  with  everything  that  I  have 
said  in  this  essay — there  is  much  with  which  I 
entirely  disagree.  The  essay  simply  represents  an 
artistic  standpoint,  and  in  aesthetic  criticism  attitude 
is  everything." 


THE      HUMANITY      OF 
SHAKESPEARE 


THE  HUMANITYof  SHAKESPEARE 

1904. 

T  IMAGINATION,  observation,  poetry,  passion, 
*  humour — all  these  are  Shakespeare's  in  supreme 
degree — we  are  dazed  as  we  look  at  them,  rising 
like  mountains  from  the  common  ground ;  but  the 
highest  peak  of  all,  that  which  is  the  first  to  be 
touched  by  the  morning  sun  and  the  last  to  retain 
its  setting  glory,  is  his  radiant  humanity.  His  is 
the  supreme  gift  of  viewing  human  nature  from 
the  heights,  of  discerning  the  reality  of  things 
below,  and  of  dealing  with  them  in  that  serene 
spirit  of  tolerance  which  is  the  attribute  only  of 
the  great  few — the  master-poets  of  the  world 
have  drunk  deep  from  that  Olympian  spring. 

Shakespeare  never  strikes  the  note  of  a  self- 
conscious  moralist — indeed,  it  is  often  difficult  to 
determine  where  his  sympathies  are.  In  this 
impersonality — this  impartiality  of  mind — he  stands 

N  193 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

almost  apart.  He  never  holds  a  brief  for  his 
characters,  labelling  this  one  good  and  that  one 
bad,  this  one  penny  plain,  and  that  one  twopence 
coloured ;  he  is  the  judge,  not  the  advocate, 
allowing  each  character  to  develop  his  own  case, 
leaving  the  jury  of  mankind  to  draw  their  con- 
clusions. He  dwells  for  the  time  being  in  the 
minds  of  the  men  he  is  portraying,  revealing  the 
truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth 
of  their  natures — extenuating  nothing,  nor  setting 
down  aught  in  malice.  His  heroes  have  their 
weaknesses — his  weak  men  their  heroisms.  He 
does  not  hesitate  to  afflict  the  noble  character  of 
the  Moor  with  a  foolish  and  unreasoning  jealousy 
— he  appears  even  to  have  a  sort  of  intellectual 
sympathy  with  the  dastard  Iago.  Like  Rem- 
brandt, he  is  the  supreme  artist  who  will  paint 
with  equal  zest  the  front  of  Jove  himself  or  the 
carcase  of  a  bullock.  He  does  not  scruple  to 
afflict  the  beautiful  nature  of  Hamlet  with  unmanly 
hesitancy,  with  a  corroding  and  disintegrating 
philosophy  which  drives  that  versatile  prince  to 
the  admission  that  "  There  is  nothing  either  good 
or  bad,  but  thinking  makes  it  so."  It  was  this 
little  rift  within  the  frail  and  delicate  lute  of 
Hamlet's  character  which  was  fated  to  make  his 
music  mute.  We  cannot  all  be  given  the  sturdy 
virtues  of  the  trombone.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
is  not  only  serenely  tolerant  of,  but  he  even  appears 

194 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

to  regard  with  a  feeling  akin  to  affection,  the  con- 
cave character  of  Falstaff ;  and  assuredly  no  two 
characters  could  be  more  opposite  than  are  those 
of  the  sweet  Prince  and  that  incarnation  of  wallow- 
ing selfishness,  that  immortal  creation  of  the  poet's 
passionate  humour,  the  fat  knight.  How  opposite 
are  their  points  of  view  of  life  and  death,  and  of 
honour  !  And  yet  no  one  but  he  who  wrote  the 
"  To  be  or  not  to  be  "  speech,  or  that  other  speech 
on  honour  in  Hamlet,  could  have  given  us  Falstaff's 
speech  on  honour  in  Henry  IV.  Listen  to  the 
words  of  Hamlet: 

"  How  all  occasions  do  inform  against  me, 
And  spur  my  dull  revenge !     What  is  a  man 
If  his  chief  good  and  market  of  his  time 
Be  but  to  sleep  and  feed  ?     A  beast — no  more. 
Sure  he  that  made  us  with  such  large  discourse 
Looking  before  and  after,  gave  us  not 
That  capability  and  godlike  reason 
To  fust  in  us  unus'd.     Now,  whether  it  be 
Bestial  oblivion  or  some  craven  scruple 
Of  thinking  too  precisely  on  the  event, 
A  thought  which,  quarter'd,  hath  but  one  part  wisdom 
And  ever  three  parts  coward, — I  do  not  know 
Why  yet  I  live  to  say  '  This  thing's  to  do.' 
***** 

....  Rightly  to  be  great 

Is  not  to  stir  without  great  argument, 

But  greatly  to  find  quarrel  in  a  straw 

When  honour's  at  the  stake. 

.  .  .  .  O  !    from  this  time  forth 

My  thoughts  be  bloody,  or  be  nothing  worth  1'' 

i9S 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

Turn  to  the  speech  of  Falstaff  before  the 
battle — 

Falstaff  :  Hal,  if  thou  see  me  down  in  the  battle,  and 
bestride  me,  so ;  'tis  a  point  of  friendship. 

Prince  :  Nothing  but  a  colossus  can  do  thee  that 
friendship.     Say  thy  prayers,  and  farewell. 

Falstaff:  I  would  it  were  bed-time,  Hal,  and  all 
well. 

Prince:  Why,  thou  owest  God  a  death.  [Exit.] 

Falstaff  :  'Tis  not  due  yet ;  I  would  be  loth  to  pay 
him  before  his  day.  What  need  I  be  so  forward  with  him 
that  calls  not  on  me  ?  Well,  'tis  no  matter ;  honour 
pricks  me  on.  Yea,  but  how  if  honour  prick  me  off 
when  I  come  on  ?  How  then  ?  Can  honour  set-to  a  leg  ? 
No.  Or  an  arm  ?  No.  Or  take  away  the  grief  of  a 
wound  ?  No.  Honour  hath  no  skill  in  surgery,  then  ? 
No.  What  is  honour  ?  A  word.  What  is  that  word 
honour  ?  Air.  A  trim  reckoning.  Who  hath  it  ? 
He  that  died  o'  Wednesday.  Doth  he  feel  it  ?  No. 
Doth  he  hear  it  ?  No.  Is  it  insensible,  then  ?  Yea, 
to  the  dead.  But  will  it  live  with  the  living  ?  No. 
Why  ?  Detraction  will  not  suffer  it.  Therefore  I'll 
none  of  it.  Honour  is  a  mere  scutcheon — and  so  ends 
my  catechism. 

Turn  to  Marc  Antony  in  Julius  Ccesar.  How 
serenely  relentless  was  his  observation  of  humanity 
in  dealing  with  this  motley  crowd  !  Marc  Antony 
has  the  complex  nature  of  a  man,  and  is  not 
merely  a  stage  figure.  Though  a  hero  he  does  not 
disdain  to  stoop  to  subterfuge  to  gain  his  end,  and 
plays  upon  the  unwashed  mob  as  a  great  composer 
sways  and  dominates,  flatters  and  cajoles,  bullies 

196 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

and  inspires  an  orchestra.  Brutus,  too,  is  lie  a 
hero  ?  No — though  noble  in  utterance,  he  is  the 
self-deceiving  politician.  There  have  been  many 
such,  who,  to  gain  their  ends,  persuade  themselves 
that  their  means  are  honest — that  they  themselves 
are  sincere.  Brutus  kills  Caesar — for  the  cood  of 
the  cause,  from  his  point  of  view.  Antony  revenges 
his  death — for  the  good  of  the  cause,  from  his 
point  of  view.  Shakespeare  remains  the  apologist 
of  both.  Was  Caesar  right  ?  Was  Brutus  right  ? 
Was  Cassius  right  ?  Was  Marc  Antony  right  ? 
Where  is  Shakespeare's  sympathy  ?  Everywhere 
— nowhere — he  holds  the  scales  of  justice,  mys- 
terious, elusive,  impartial,  inscrutable,  seeing  "  with 
equal  eye  as  God  of  all,  a  hero  perish  or  a  sparrow 
fall." 

Take  Shylock.  Most  people  appear  to  think 
that  Shylock  must  either  be  a  demon  or  a  saviour. 
He  is,  in  truth,  a  mixture  of  both — the  man — the 
Jew  !  But  mark  the  serene  impartiality  where- 
with Shakespeare  sits  in  judgment  on  the  soul  of 
Shylock  !  He  presents  in  him  the  vices  as  well  as 
the  virtues  of  his  race.  Domesticity  is  one  of  the 
Hebraic  virtues.  The  love  of  his  daughter  com- 
mends him  to  our  sympathies — anon  his  vengeful 
and  cruel  nature  commands  our  censure.  It  is, 
therefore,  ridiculous  to  present  Shylock  as  a  merely 
sympathetic  character.  Of  course,  the  culmina- 
tion of  suffering  creates  sympathy  with  any  man, 

197 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

and,  while  laughing  at  his  pretensions,  we  weep 
at  his  griefs.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  at  the 
time  Shakespeare  wrote  The  Merchant  of  Venice 
the  Jews  were  not  regarded  with  high  favour, 
and  Shylock's  first  speech  shows  him  informed 
by  the  spirit  of  revenge.  I  do  not  deny  that 
Shy  lock  had  just  cause  to  be  angry,  and  it  has 
been  said  that  revenge  is  a  primitive  form  of 
justice.  But  just  when  we  begin  to  think  that 
Shylock  is  becoming  the  martyr-hero  of  the  play, 
and  that  all  our  sympathies  are  meant  for  him, 
Shakespeare,  the  altruist,  enters  upon  the  scene, 
and  gives  us  the  immortal  speech  on  the  quality 
of  mercy,  which,  bursting  the  walls  of  the  narrow 
court,  preaches  to  humanity  the  eternal  message 
of  Christian  forgiveness.  Here  is  put  in  consum- 
mate fashion  the  tragedy  of  a  people's  oppression  ; 
then  the  whole  ancient  Jewish  wisdom  is  shattered, 
flung  down,  a  thing  outworn,  rent  to  pieces  by  the 
mightier  wisdom  of  the  greatest  of  all  the  Jews. 

Glance  at  Richard  II.  He  is  as  many-sided  as 
the  other  great  creations  of  the  poet.  What  is  to 
be  said  of  that  strange  mixture  of  power  and 
feebleness,  of  nobility  and  apathy,  of  courage  and 
irresolution,  of  indolence  and  energy  ?  The  poet 
gives  us  the  clue  to  the  enigma  in  his  presentation 
of  the  character  of  this  spoilt  child  of  fortune, 
and  informs  us  more  by  the  enlightening  magic 
of  his  genius  than  does  the  historian  by  a  record  of 

198 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

dry  facts.  It  may  well  be  imagined  that  the 
tragic  figure  of  Richard  served  the  poet  as  a  model 
for  the  development  of  the  character  of  Hamlet, 
with  whom  the  ill-fated  King  has  many  points 
of  resemblance.  In  both  instances  we  have  the 
spectacle  of  a  young  prince  thrown  into  surround- 
ings of  barbarism  and  corruption,  both  incapable 
of  grappling  with  the  stern  facts  of  life.  In  each 
case  the  idealist  succumbs  to  the  materialist — the 
man  of  action.  Each  in  his  way  laments  the 
futility  of  his  existence.  Hamlet  on  the  immor- 
tality of  his  soul,  Richard  on  the  divine  rights 
of  kings — each  seems  to  breathe  that  sad  and 
fantastic  irony  which  is  so  dominant  a  note  in  the 
poet's  mind. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  play,  when  the  two 
appellants  come  before  him,  Richard  exhibits  that 
princely  confidence  which  had  already  enabled  him 
to  quell  the  followers  of  Wat  Tyler,  and  to  raise 
in  his  people  those  high  hopes  for  a  great  future 
which  were  never  to  be  realised.  Again,  in  the 
lists  at  Coventry,  when  he  stops  the  intended 
fight,  and  there  and  then  banishes  both  com- 
batants, he  comes  forth  as  a  strong,  quick,  and 
resourceful  statesman.  But,  later,  at  the  bedside 
of  his  dying  uncle  his  bearing  is  harsh  and  unfeel- 
ing, completely  overshadowing  the  good  qualities 
he  had  shown  before.  Furthermore,  on  the  return 
of  Bolingbroke  a  few  months  afterwards,  when  the 

199 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

unhappy  king  is  deserted  by  his  subjects,  Shake- 
speare reveals  him  in  the  throes  of  an  exaggerated 
and  over-indulgent  sell-pity.  The  passionate,  way- 
ward artistic  nature  that  before  made  him  over- 
bearing and  imperious,  turns  him  now  into  an 
effeminate  and  self-compassionate  creature.  There 
are  occasional  rallies  of  wit  and  spirit,  but  the  poet 
shows  them  as  mere  flickers  flaming  up  out  of  the 
darkness  of  his  despair.  Then,  just  as  we  are  feel- 
ing contempt  for  the  man,  the  humanity  of  Shake- 
speare bursts  through  again,  and,  in  the  scene  of 
the  surrender  of  his  crown,  compels  us  to  acknow- 
ledge in  this  complex  character  a  distinct  noble- 
ness and  pathos — this,  possibly,  to  prepare  us  for 
the  death  of  Richard  in  prison,  where  we  are 
given  a  remnant  of  his  old  bearing,  though  tempered 
by  repentance  and  resignation. 

Take  again  the  development  of  the  characters 
of  King  Lear,  of  Macbeth,  and  of  King  John. 
None  of  these  is  a  hero  in  the  conventional  sense 
of  the  word.  In  themselves,  they  do  not  call  forth 
our  sympathies.  It  is  their  humanity  thrown 
athwart  the  tragic  incidents  of  their  lives  which 
gradually  awakens  in  us  emotions  culminating  in 
a  climactic  agony  of  grief. 

Let  us  now  pass  from  the  contemplation  of 
Shakespeare's  work  to  a  consideration  of  the  treat- 
ment which  his  interpreters  should  devote  to  that 

200 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

work  in  order  to  bring  homo  to  the  spectator  the 
true  meaning  of  the  poet.  And  here  it  is  the 
actor's  highest  aim  to  give  that  note  of  humanity 
which  makes  the  whole  world  kin. 

It  is  the  fashion  to  say  that  the  mounting  of 
Shakespeare  is  the  main  consideration  the  modern 
actor-manager  has  in  view.  That  is  all  nonsense. 
These  are  the  outward  flourishes  and  not  the 
essentials.  It  was  once  thought  necessary  that 
the  actor  should  put  on  stilts  in  order  to  reach 
the  Shakespearian  height.  No  author  demands  a 
more  natural,  a  more  sincere,  a  more  human  treat- 
ment at  the  hands  of  the  actor  than  does  Shake- 
speare. He,  being  the  most  modern  of  writers, 
demands  the  most  modern  treatment.  He  is  not 
of  yesterday  nor  to-day — he  is  of  yesterday  and 
to-day  and  to-morrow  and  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. The  actor's  own  humanity — that  is  the 
all-important  question.  How  far  is  he  to  allow 
that  to  be  infused  with  the  character  he  is  called 
upon  to  represent  ?  Certain  it  is  that  whilst  the 
actor's  outer  self-suppression  is  amongst  the  most 
essential  factors  of  success  in  his  art,  so  also  are 
his  own  individuality,  his  own  personality,  his 
own  humanity  all-important. 

You  cannot  imagine  a  characterless  person 
playing  the  great  characters  of  Shakespeare.  You 
say,  '  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter — Shakespeare  has 
taken    care    of    all    that."     Yes,    but    it    requires 


?oi 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

individuality  to  interpret  individuality — power, 
force,  character,  to  realise  the  creations  of  the 
master  brain.  Nothing  else  than  the  actor's 
individuality  will  make  the  humanity  of  these 
characters  stand  out  sharp  and  clear  from  the 
mass  of  humanities  grouped  about  it  and  behind  it. 

I  was  once  walking  along  the  sea-shore  of  a 
great  northern  city  at  close  of  day,  and,  casting 
my  eyes  inland,  I  was  impressed  by  the  superb 
manner  in  which  the  splendid  granite  towers  and 
spires  outlined  themselves  clear-cut  against  the 
crimson  of  the  sunset  sky.  Behind  them  stood  a 
mass  of  grey,  indeterminate  masonry,  vague  and 
menacing,  pallid  and  indistinguishable  ;  but  they 
themselves,  those  lofty  spires  tapering  into  the 
azure  of  heaven,  those  embattled  towers  square 
and  massive,  how  superbly  they  reared  themselves 
aloft  and  above  the  surging  world  beneath  them  ! 
So,  I  thought  to  myself,  is  it  with  the  great  char- 
acters of  Shakespeare.  They  are  outlined  for  all 
time,  they  stand  as  memorials  of  humanity  for 
ever.  But  how  is  the  actor  to  give  life  to  these 
creations  ?  How  infuse  into  them  the  vitality  by 
which  only  they  can  be  brought  into  touch  with 
the  present  day  ?  And  the  answer  surely  is,  that 
he  must  infuse  them  with  his  own  individuality. 
Initiative — like  "  Mesopotamia  " — is  a  blessed 
word  in  the  hands  of  the  discreet  man. 

Consider    what    an    impossible    condition    of 

202 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

things  it  would  be  if  everybody  played  Hamlet, 
Macbeth,  Mai  vol  io,  or  Shy  lock  on  the  same  pattern 
— Smith  playing  it  like  Robinson,  and  Brown  like 
both  of  them.  Or  picture  to  yourselves  how 
absurd  it  would  be  if  a  man  played  all  those  four 
characters  in  the  same  way,  the  words  only  denot- 
ing the  difference.  No  ;  an  actor,  if  he  is  to  be 
in  any  way  understood  or  make  his  character 
understood,  must  infuse  into  his  reading  of  Hamlet, 
Macbeth,  Malvolio,  or  Shylock  his  own  humanity, 
his  own  individuality,  his  own  personality  ;  for  it 
is  his  personality  that  accentuates,  that  brings 
out  the  personality  of  the  character  he  is  por- 
traying. And  the  more  widely  that  three  or 
four  different  actors  of  strong  character  differ  in 
their  respective  readings  of  a  part,  the  more  is  it 
a  proof  of  its  own  inherent  humanness,  the  more 
is  it  obvious  that  it  is  possessed  of  a  wide  human 
nature.  As  to  how  far  he  is  to  bring  his  own 
humanity  to  bear  upon  that  of  Shakespeare  is 
a  matter  that  can  be  safely  left  to  the  wit  and 
discretion  of  an  originally-minded  man.  After 
all,  the  same  applies  to  literature.  A  good  writer 
always  puts  a  great  deal  of  himself  into  his 
varied  characters — for,  be  sure  of  this,  you  can- 
not guess  at  human  nature.  To  make  a  mark 
upon  the  literature  of  your  day,  or  of  any  day, 
you  can  only  write  from  your  own  personal  experi- 
ence,  observation,   or  instinct ;    and  the  greatest 

203 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

of  these  is  instinct,  for  instinct  is  the  knowledge 
supplied  by  heredity.     Some  men  arc  born  edu- 
cated— some  are  not.     It  is  not  less  so  with  the 
actor.     He  cannot  take  cock-shies   at   humanity. 
Human  nature  is,  after  all,  the  most  modern  thing 
we  know,  and  it  is  the  most  ancient.     But  one 
thing  is  certain — it  is  never  outworn,   never  out 
of  the  fashion.     Empires  and  principalities,  nations 
and  institutions  fade  away  ;   but  humanity  remains 
to-day  exactly  as  it  was,  in  all  essentials,  a  hundred 
thousand    years    ago — as    it    will    be    a    hundred 
thousand  years  hence.     Do  you  know  that  wonder- 
ful crouching  figure  in  the  British  Museum,   the 
Stone-Age  man,  discovered  in  Egypt — a  man  who 
lived  any  time  between  twenty  and  fifty  thousand 
years  ago  ?     You  see  his  bones,  his  muscles,  even 
the  very  hair  of  his  face.     He  seems  so  long  ago, 
and  yet  he  is,  after  all,  one  of  ourselves.     He  might 
have  been  Hamlet,  or  Napoleon,  or  Macbeth,  or 
Herbert  Spencer.     He  is   eternal  ;    and  they  are 
eternal,  for  humanity  is  eternal.     Human  nature 
is  informed  by  the  same  passions,  the  same  joys, 
the  same  griefs,   the  same  humour — and  in  pro- 
portion as  the  interpreter  informs  his  conceptions 
of   Shakespeare   with   his   own   humanity,   so  wrill 
his  work  stand  out  clear  and  vivid  upon  the  stage. 
How  vast  is  the  story  of  humanity  writ  in  the 
brain  of  the  greatest  thinker  mankind  has   ever 
produced.     By  the  light  of  the  wide  tolerance  of 

204 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

his  spacious  day,  we  feel  how  thin  arc  the  barriers 
of  caste,  how  puny  are  our  social  bickerings,  what 
a  little  thing  is  mere  pleasure  as  compared  with  the 
large  happiness  of  mankind.  A  shilling  will  bring 
happiness  to  the  humblest  undcrstander  of  Shake- 
speare, and,  for  the  nonce,  he  will  mix  with  em- 
perors, philosophers,  princes,  and  wits — on  equal 
terms,  for  Shakespeare's  humanity  is  every  man's. 
That  is  his  title  to  immortality.  His  wide  spirit 
will  outlive  the  mere  letter  of  narrow  doctrines,  and 
his  winged  words,  vibrant  with  the  music  of  the 
larger  religion  of  humanity,  will  go  thrilling  down 
the  ages,  while  dogmas  die  and  creeds  crumble 
in  the  dust. 


AFTERTHOUGHT 

In  saying  that  only  he  who  wrote  the  speech  of 
Hamlet  beginning  "  To  be  or  not  to  be  "  could  have 
written  Falstaffs  speech  on  Honour  before  battle,  I 
am  tempted  to  relate  what  I  think  was  a  true  word 
spoken  in  humour — and  nothing  can  point  a  truth 
so  well  as  humour  ! 

Some  time  ago  I  was  requested  to  have  my  voice 
recorded  for  the  British  Museum,  and  the  choice  for 
the  purpose  fell  upon  the  two  speeches  above-mentioned 

205 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

— in  the  respective  voices  of  Hamlet  and  Falstaff. 
Those  gramophone  records  now  reside  in  the  archives 
of  the  British  Museum.  In  an  expansive  moment  I 
once  related  (this  was,  of  course,  purely  -fictional)  that 
so  nervous  was  I,  feeling  myself  in  the  presence  of 
posterity,  that  I  spoke  the  speech  of  Hamlet  in  the 
voice  of  Falstaff  and  that  of  Falstaff  in  the  voice  of 
Hamlet;  and  I  thus  made  the  interesting  discovery 
that  Hamlet  and  Falstaff  were  one  and  the  same 
person — they  were  in  fact  Shakespeare !  If  the 
reader  will  turn  to  Falstaff' 's  speech  on  Honour  quoted 
in  this  essay,  and  will  read  it  with  the  voice  or  with 
the  eyes  of  Hamlet,  he  will  find  that  these  identical 
words  might  have  been  spoken  by  him  to  his  friend 
Horatio,  as  they  were  in  fact  spoken  by  the  fat  knight 
to  Prince  Hal ;  they  are  equally  appropriate  to  the 
gentle  humour  of  the  sweet  Prince  as  they  are  in  the 
mouth  of  the  philosophic  sensualist. 

Turn  again  to  the  speech  beginning  "To  be  or 
not  to  be,"  and  you  may  imagine  the  prototype  of 
Falstaff  sitting  in  the  Mermaid  Tavern  speaking 
the  lines  on  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul  to  his  boon 
companions.  You  can  imagine  Shakespeare  him- 
self sitting  in  an  ingle  nook  listening  to  the  words  of 
wisdom  uttered  by  this  stricken  idealist,  this  boulting 
hutch  of  beastliness,  and  taking  them  down  in  short- 
hand to  give  to  the  actor  who  first  played  Hamlet. 

And  here  another  After-thought  springs  to  my  mind. 
I  have  referred  in  an  earlier  essay  ("  Our  Betters  ")  to 

206 


The  Humanity  of  Shakespeare 

the  strange  vicissitudes  of  the  English  tongue  which 
changes  in  each  generation.  Why  should  not  the 
gramophone,  like  the  cinematograph,  be  used  for 
educational  purposes  ?  Why  should  it  not  be  used 
to  perpetuate  for  future  generations  a  standard  pronun- 
ciation of  the  English  language  ?  There  is  at  present 
practically  no  law  but  that  of  fleeting  custom  as  a 
guide  to  pronunciation.  A  Committee  might  be 
formed  to  decide  on  some  universal  approved  method 
of  preserving  the  language  in  its  strength  and  purity. 
What  would  we  not  give  to-day  if  we  could  hear  on 
this  gramophone  the  voice  of  Elizabeth  and  of  Shake- 
speare !  How  did  Ccesar  pronounce  Latin  ?  How 
did  Sophocles  speak  Greek  ? 


THE    TEMPEST 
IN    A    TEACUP 

A    PERSONAL    EXPLANATION 


THE       TEMPEST 
IN   A   TEACUP 

1904. 

THE  question  whether  the  works  of  Shakespeare, 
and  The  Tempest  in  particular,  should  or  should 
not  be  represented  on  the  stage,  is  one  which  has 
of  late  been  debated  with  considerable  vehemence. 
The  negative  point  of  view  is  open  to  argument, 
although  it  is  obviously  a  point  of  view  not  shared 
by  Shakespeare.  Nor  do  I  propose  to  tread  such 
debatable  ground.  It  is  rather  my  purpose  to  deal 
with  the  more  practical  question  of  the  manner 
in  which  the  poet's  work  should  be  produced. 

Of  all  Shakespeare's  works  The  Tempest  is 
probably  the  one  which  most  demands  the  aids 
of  modern  stage-craft.  But  to  the  super-subtle 
nothing  is  so  baffling  as  the  obvious. 

My  efforts  to  present  this  fantasy  were  widely 
and  generously  recognised  by  men  of  letters  and 
by  the  public  at  large  ;  they  also  called  forth  the 
wrath  of  others,  whose  vituperation,  I  prefer  to 
think,    was    not   due   to   a   desire   to   baulk    high 

211 


The  Tempest 

endeavour,  but  rather  to  an  honest  ignorance  of 
the  text  of  the  play,  and  to  a  whole-hearted  inca- 
pacity to  appreciate  the  spirit  of  the  poet.  To  the 
prosaic  nothing  is  so  embarrassing  as  the  poetic. 
My  contention  is  that  unless  The  Tempest  be 
produced  in  such  a  way  as  to  bring  home  to 
audiences  the  fantasy  and  the  beauties  of  the  play 
it  were  better  not  to  attempt  it  at  all.  The  ques- 
tion is  :  Can  that  fantasy  and  those  beauties  be 
conveyed  to  the  senses  of  an  audience  by  means 
of  what  is  called  "  adequate  "  treatment  ?  I  say 
No.  And  I  further  contend  that  it  is  far  more 
satisfactory  to  read  the  play  in  the  study  than 
to  see  it  presented  in  the  archaic  and  echoic 
methods  so  dear  to  epicures  in  mediocrity.  In- 
deed, if  so  presented,  the  public  would  stay  away, 
and  the  public  would  be  right,  for  the  illusion  of 
the  spectator  would  be  dulled  rather  than 
quickened  by  such  a  presentation.  Illusion  is 
the  whole  business  of  the  theatre.  Treatment,  I 
hold,  is  essential  to  the  proper  comprehension  of 
Shakespeare  on  the  stage,  and  nowhere,  I  think, 
is  this  more  evident  than  in  the  case  of  The  Tem- 
pest. This  fact  was  recognised  by  the  late  Charles 
Kean,  who  gave  to  the  public  an  elaborate  and 
beautiful  production  of  this  fairy-play.  The  wits 
of  the  period  spoke  of  that  distinguished  and 
enthusiastic  artist  as  an  "  upholsterer,"  a  "  spec- 
tacle-maker," and  a  "  poodle-trimmer  "  ! 

212 


The  Tempest 

Since  that  time  the  science  of  invective 
appears  to  have  made  considerable  strides. 

A  nameless  writer  in  Blackwood's  Magazine 
made  the  broad  statement  that  Shakespeare's 
plays  "  afford  no  decent  opportunity  for  elaborate 
scenery."  If  ever  there  were  an  author  whose 
plays  do  lend  themselves  to  elaborate  stage  treat- 
ment, that  author  is  assuredly  Shakespeare. 
None,  indeed,  is  so  rich  in  scenic  suggestion,  and 
it  can  scarcely  be  denied  that  his  works  were  pri- 
marily intended  for  the  theatre,  nor  that  the 
theatre  is  primarily  intended  for  theatre-goers. 
The  bookworm  has  always  his  book. 

The  nameless  writer  further  said  that  "  it 
should  be  impossible  to  turn  them  (the  plays)  to 
the  vulgar  use  of  stage  illusion.''''  And  this  is 
written  of  an  art  which  is  the  art  of  illusion — this 
is  written  of  the  work  of  a  man  who  was  an  actor 
and  a  playwright  ! 

It  may  be  broadly  laid  down  that  whatever 
tends  to  quicken  the  imagination  of  the  audience 
— in  fact,  to  create  illusion — is  justifiable  on  the 
stage.  Whatever  detracts  from  the  appreciation 
of  the  author's  work  and  disturbs  the  illusion  is 
to  be  deprecated — is,  in  fact,  bad  art.  The 
measure  of  success  or  failure  must  be  left  to  the 
judgment  of  each  individual.  It  is  a  question  of 
taste  on  the  part  of  the  artist  who  presents  the 
play,  and  a  question  of  receptiveness  on  the  part 

213 


The  Tempest 

of  the  spectator.     There  are  those  who  see  nothing 
but  scenery — who  hear  nothing   but  the  carpen- 
ter's   hammer — but   what   else   should   they   see  ? 
What    else    should    they    hear  ?     When    Caliban 
hears  sounds  and  sweet  music  in  the  air  and  sees 
riches  in  the  clouds,  the  drunken  butler  and  the 
chartered  fool  split  their  sides  with  ironic  laughter. 
Our    nameless     writer     waxed     fervid    in    his 
denunciation  :    "  No  intelligent  actor  would  ever 
bring   the   poet's    masterpieces    under   a   mass    of 
irrelevant  scenery  "   (sic).     Our  writer  also  grew 
highly  indignant  with  the  playing  of  The  Tempest 
in   three   acts   instead   of   five,    ignoring   the   fact 
that  this  arrangement  comes  much  nearer  to  the 
system    which    prevailed    in    Shakespeare's    own 
time,  when  scenes  and  acts  followed  each  other 
in  swift  succession.     All  Shakespeare's  plays  have 
to  undergo  a  certain   amount  of   abbreviation  to 
bring  them  within  the  time-limit  demanded    by 
modern    audiences,    and    indeed    there    is    every 
reason  to  believe  that  these  plays  were  consider- 
ably "  cut  "  in  Shakespeare's  own  time.     But  our 
nameless    writer's    anathema    was    not    yet    ex- 
hausted, for  he  made  the  sweeping  denunciation  : 
"  All    the   actors    are    incompetent."     And   worse 
remained  behind  :    "  The  orchestra  is  hidden  be- 
neath a  mass  of  vegetables."     This  is  no  doubt 
another   instance   of   the   vulgarity   of   stage   illu- 
sion.    Owing,  we  are  told,  to  the  din  of  the  scene- 

214 


The  Tempest 

shifters,  the  actors  "  put  a  false  emphasis  on  every 
syllabic  which  they  uttered."  It  seemed,  indeed, 
that  the  "  national  honour  "  was  almost  involved  by 
the  "  lamentable  caprice  "  of  the  actor-manager. 

But  the  main  indictment  of  the  revival  was 
against  the  introduction  of  "  pantomime."  To 
this  I  reply  that  whatever  there  is  of  pantomime 
is  Shakespeare's.  I  will  endeavour  to  prove  that 
at  no  point  have  I  gone  in  this  direction  outside 
the  instructions  of  the  dramatist.  Shakespeare's 
stage  instructions  in  Act  I.,  Scene  1,  are  as  fol- 
lows : — "  On  a  ship  at  sea — A  tempestuous  noise 
of  lightning  and  thunder  heard."  Acting  upon 
these  instructions,  we  were  presumptuous  enough 
to  endeavour  to  depict  a  ship  at  sea,  as  well  as 
modern  appliances  will  allow,  to  reproduce  the 
effect  of  thunder  and  lightning,  and  to  assume 
that  their  accompaniment  might  not  too  incon- 
gruously be  a  rough  sea. 

.Again,  another  of  Shakespeare's  stage  instruc- 
tions runs  :  "  Enter  several  strange  Shapes,  bring- 
ing in  a  banquet,  they  dance  about  it  with  gentle 
actions  of  salutation ;  and,  inviting  the  King,  etc.,  to 
eat,  they  depart.''''  Here  there  is  a  certain  suggestion 
of  pantomime  which  was  carried  out  faithfully. 

Again,  in  the  same  scene,  Shakespeare's  in- 
structions are  :  "  Thunder  and  lightning — enter 
Ariel  like  a  harpy — claps  his  wings  on  the  table, 

215 


The  Tempest 

and  with  a  quaint  device  the  banquet  vanishes" 
Here  Ariel  was  permitted  to  resemble  a  harpy  as 
nearly  as  possible.    The  pantomime  is  Shakespeare's. 

The  ballet  introduced  may  need  a  few  words 
of  apology  or  explanation.  In  this  scene  Shake- 
speare deliberately  introduces  a  masque,  which 
Prospero  conjures  up  for  the  entertainment  of 
Ferdinand  and  Miranda.  We  merely  tried  to 
follow  the  author's  injunctions,  and  we  know  how 
elaborate  were  the  masques  in  Shakespeare's  day. 
Iris  and  Ceres  and  Juno  enter,  summoned  by  the 
wand  of  Prospero,  and  according  to  the  instruc- 
tions of  the  dramatist,  they  sing.  (Throughout 
this  play  Shakespeare  has  recourse  to  the  aid  of 
music.)  The  instructions  are  somewhat  meagre 
as  to  the  nature  of  the  masque,  and  in  their 
absence  I  thought  it  justifiable  to  invent  the 
revels  as  suggested  by  the  dialogue.  Briefly,  Iris 
calls  upon  the  Nymphs  to  be  merry  and  to  dance 
with  the  Reapers. 

At  this  point  Shakespeare  introduces  a  masque, 
in  which  Iris  calls  on  the  "  Naiads  of  the  wind- 
ing brooks  ....  to  celebrate  a  contract  of 
true  love,"  with  the  "  sunburnt  sicklemen  of 
August  weary."  The  author's  stage  instructions 
are  as  follows  : — "  Enter  certain  Reapers  properly 
habited.  They  join  with  the  Nymphs  in  a  graceful 
dance.'"  To  illustrate  this  incident,  I  have  de- 
signed  a   little   ballet   with   a   purpose,    of   which 

216 


The  Tempest 

the  following  explanatory  story  may  not  be  amiss. 
The  Naiads  of  the  winding-  brooks  arc  discovered 
disporting  themselves  in  the  water  among  the 
rushes  and  water-lilies.  Iris  calls  on  them  to  leave 
their  crisp  channels  to  dance  on  the  green  turf. 
Nothing  loth,  the  Naiads  leave  their  native  element 
and  dance  as  mortals  dance.  The  sudden  appear- 
ance of  the  boy  Cupid  interrupts  their  revels — the 
Naiads  modestly  immerse  themselves  in  the  water. 
Cupid,  ever  a  match-maker,  brings  in  his  train  the 
sunburnt  sicklemen  who,  leaving  their  lonely 
furrows,  are  enjoined  by  Iris  to  make  holiday  with 
the  Nymphs  "  in  country  footing."  Taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  chaste  amiability  of  the  Nymphs, 
the  Reapers  endeavour  to  embrace  them,  but  their 
advances  are  indignantly  repulsed,  the  maidens 
very  rightly  pointing  to  their  ringless  wedding- 
fingers,  it  being  illegal  (in  fairy-land)  to  exchange 
kisses  without  a  marriage  certificate.  Thus  re- 
buffed, the  Reapers  continue  their  dance  alone. 
Suddenly  Cupid  re-appears  on  the  scene,  and  shoots 
a  dart  in  the  heart  of  ea'ch  coy  maiden  ;  at  once 
they  relent,  and,  love  conquering  modesty,  they 
sue  to  the  Reapers.  But  the  Reapers  are  now 
obdurate.  They  laugh  ;  the  maidens  weep.  Cupid 
now  shoots  an  arrow  into  the  heart  of  each  of  the 
Reapers,  who,  seeing  their  little  friends  aweep, 
sue  to  them,  pointing  to  their  wedding-fingers. 
Cupid  re-appears  on  the  scene,  and  an  impromptu 

217 


The  Tempest 

wedding  is  arranged,  all  the  Reapers  and  Nymphs 
taking  part  in  the  ceremony.  To  the  wedding 
song  of  "  Honour,  riches,  marriage-blessing,"  the 
Nymphs  assume  the  marriage  veils  which  they 
gather  from  the  mists  of  the  lake,  and  each  having 
received  a  ring  and  a  blessing  at  the  hands  of  the 
Rev.  Master  Cupid,  they  dance  off  with  the  Reapers 
in  quest  of  everlasting  happiness,  thus  triumphantly 
vindicating  the  ethics  of  the  drama.  No  excuse  is 
necessary  for  this  introduction,  which  is  in  obedience 
to  the  author's  directions.  In  the  absence  of  any 
detailed  instructions  as  to  the  nature  of  the  masque 
introduced  by  Shakespeare,  it  is  hoped  that  this 
fanciful  trifle  will  serve.  It  certainly  had  the 
effect  of  pleasing  the  public,  and  can  offend  none 
but  the  professional  purist. 

Again,  in  the  scene  in  which  Prospero  deter- 
mines to  punish  Caliban,  Stephano,  and  Trinculo, 
we  endeavoured  to  follow  faithfully  the  some- 
what meagre  instructions  which  are  given  in  the 
play.  "  A  noise  of  hunters  is  heard.  Enter 
divers  spirits  in  shapes  of  dogs  and  hounds,  hunt- 
ing them  about,  Prospero  and  Ariel  setting  them 
on."  Prospero  says,  "  I  will  plague  them  all 
even  to  roaring."  Although  we  could  not  attain 
to  the  degree  of  realism  which  Shakespeare  would 
have  us  attempt  when  he  gives  us  instructions  : 
"  Enter  divers  spirits  in  shapes  of  dogs  and  hounds — 
hunting  them  about,"  yet  we  endeavoured  to  present 

218 


The  Tempest 

spirits  in  animal  shapes ;  and  in  order  to  illustrate 
the  discomfiture  of  Caliban,  Trinculo,  and  Stephano 
we  followed  Shakespeare's  directions  to  Ariel  : 

"  Go,  charge  my  goblins  that  they  grind  their  joints 
With  dry  convulsions  ;    shorten  up  their  sinews 
With  aged  cramps.     Let  them  be  hunted  soundly." 

I  venture  to  assume  that  by  these  instructions 
Shakespeare  intended  that  the  goblins  should 
grind  their  joints  with  dry  convulsions  and  that 
they  should  "  hunt  them  soundly."  Prospero  also 
says,  '  I  will  plague  them  all  even  to  roaring." 
Those  who  condemned  us  for  introducing  the 
goblins  which  they  denounced  as  the  intrusion  of 
"  vulgar  pantomime,"  evidently  overlooked  the 
stage  instructions  to  which  I  have  drawn  atten- 
tion. And  they  forgot  that  a  high  fantastical 
note  runs  through  the  whole  play  which  was 
intended  to  amuse  (dare  I  say  it  ?)  the  audience 
for  which  Shakespeare  wrote. 

Some  of  our  critics  maintained  that  in  this 
production  the  poetry  had  been  deliberately  dis- 
pensed with  as  a  tiresome  superfluity,  and  that 
the  setting  alone  had  been  considered.  There 
were  some,  of  course,  to  whom  our  stage  treat- 
ment conveyed  no  sense  of  poetry,  and  these 
clamoured  for  a  mode  of  production  which  we 
were  told  existed  in  Shakespeare's  own  day. 
They  frankly  preferred  placards  announcing  the 
scenes  in  order  thoroughly  to  abandon  themselves 

219 


The  Tempest 

to  the  poetry  of  the  play.  They  would  go  farther, 
no  doubt,  and  have  the  female  parts  played  by 
males,  as  in  Shakespeare's  day.  This  is  the  style 
of  art  so  dear  to  Bottom  the  Weaver,  and  to  this 
spirit  was  given  full  rein  in  our  production  of 
A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  when  placards  an- 
nounced "  This  is  a  Forest,"  and  when  Thisbe 
(played  by  a  male  actor)  carried  a  board  with 
the  words  "  This  is  a  Maiden,"  and  Snug  the 
Joiner  was  labelled  "  This  is  a  Lion."  I  can 
imagine  how  Shakespeare  would  have  laughed 
these  champions  to  scorn. 

At  the  end  of  the  play  I  ventured  upon  a 
certain  modification  of  the  text  by  omitting  the 
Epilogue  addressed  by  the  actor  to  the  audi- 
ence, reserving  Prospero's  glorious  speech  begin- 
ning '  Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes 
and  groves  "  for  the  end  of  the  play. 

Now,  as  to  the  characterisation  in  this  play. 
The  character  most  assailed  was  Caliban.  I 
took  it  for  granted  that  Shakespeare's  characters 
were  self-explanatory.  Here  again,  it  appears,  I 
was  mistaken.  One  writer  maintained  that  Cali- 
ban— like  Shylock  ! — is  a  purely  comic  character, 
and  the  attempt  at  the  end  of  the  play  to  mate- 
rialise Shakespeare's  spirit  in  a  tableau  met  with 
the  gravest  displeasure.  Many  others  denounce 
as  un-Shakespearean  any  note  of  humanity  which 

220 


The  Tempest 

redeems  his  nature — Caliban,  they  said,  was 
merely  a  monster.  Careless  reading  has  once 
more  been  the  pitfall  of  the  censorious.  For  it 
has  been  maintained  with  fond  reiteration  that 
Caliban  is  described  by  Shakespeare  himself  as 
'  a  freckled  whelp,  hag-born,  not  honour'd  with 
a  human  shape."  Precisely  the  contrary  is  the 
case.     The  lines  are  as  follows  : 

"  Then  was  this  island — 
(Save  for  the  son  that  she  did  litter  here, 
A  freckled  whelp,  hag-born) — not  honour'd  with 
A  human  shape." 

Thus  Shakespeare  definitely  states  that  Caliban 
had  a  human  shape.  Caliban,  too,  is  described  by 
Shakespeare  as  'a  savage  and  deformed  slave." 
If  he  were  the  unredeemed  monster  that  these 
writers  would  have  us  think,  is  it  possible  that 
he  should  have  uttered  those  beautiful  lines, 
'  This  isle  is  full  of  noises,  sounds,  and  sweet 
airs  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not,"  &c.  ?  In- 
deed, in  his  love  of  music  and  his  affinity  with  the 
unseen  world,  we  discern  in  the  soul  which  in- 
habits the  brutish  body  of  this  elemental  man 
the  germs  of  a  sense  of  beauty,  the  dawn  of  art. 
And  as  he  stretches  out  his  arms  towards  the 
empty  horizon,  we  feel  that  from  the  conception 
of  sorrow  in  solitude  may  spring  the  birth  of  a 
higher  civilisation. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  show  that  whatever  in 

221 


The  Tempest 

this  production  was  not  actually  contained  in  the 
letter  of  Shakespeare's  text,  sprang  from  the 
spirit  which  animated  it,  and  I  contend  that  those 
who  attributed  its  success  to  the  meretricious 
aids  of  scenic  and  other  embellishments  were 
mistaken  in  their  conclusions — however  discon- 
certing it  may  be  to  attribute  success  to  merit. 

This  brings  me  to  the  main  purpose  of  this 
Personal  Explanation.  It  has  been  freely  stated 
that  in  the  presentation  of  this  play,  I  had  but 
pandered  to  a  vulgar  public,  incapable  of  appre- 
ciating the  works  of  the  poet,  and  that,  in  order 
to  attract  that  public,  I  was  driven  to  overload 
the  play  with  a  lavish  expenditure  of  money.  To 
this  charge  I  reply  by  the  simple  statement  of 
fact  that  its  cost  was  half  that  expended  on  a 
modern  play  recently  presented  at  His  Majesty's 
Theatre.  And  I  fail  to  sec  why  Shakespeare 
should  be  treated  with  less  care,  with  less  rever- 
ence and  with  less  lavishness  of  resource  than  is 
demanded  by  modern  authors.  So  far  from  pan- 
dering to  the  public  taste,  I  claim  that  an  artist 
works  primarily  for  himself — his  first  aim  is  to 
satisfy  his  own  artistic  conscience.  His  output 
is  the  result  of  the  impetus  in  him  to  work  out 
his  own  ideals.  Even  were  the  public  satisfied 
with  a  less  competent  treatment  of  the  poet's 
work,  I  should  still  have  presented  it  in  the  way 
I  did.     But  so  far  from  admitting  that  the  public 

222 


The  Tempest 

— my  public — is  a  vulgar  public,  I  am  conscious 
that  their  demands  upon  the  art  of  the  manager 
are  too  often  in  excess  of  his  powers  to  gratify 
them.  I  have  indeed  reason  to  be  grateful  to 
the  public  for  having  supported  the  policy  and 
work  of  my  theatre  persistently,  regardless  of  the 
sneers  of  those  who  are  not  the  leaders,  but  the 
camp-followers  of  progress.  I  have  no  wish  to 
quarrel  with  those  who  attack  that  policy  and 
that  work,  for  I  hold  that  the  strength  of  men,  as 
of  governments,  is  in  precise  proportion  to  the 
opposition  they  encounter.  I  claim,  however,  the 
right  to  protest  against  the  imputation  of  sordid 
motives  in  placing  great  works  before  the  public. 
I  am  at  least  entitled  to  maintain  that  I  have 
done  my  best  to  present  the  works  of  Shakespeare 
in  the  manner  which  I  considered  most  worthy, 
and  I  feel  a  certain  pride  in  remembering  that, 
be  our  method  right  or  wrong,  we  have  brought 
the  poet's  creations  before  hundreds  of  thousands. 


AFTERTHOUGHT 

Since  this  Personal  Explanation  was  written  the 
art  of  stage  'presentation  has  progressed — and  I  think 
rightly  progressed — in  the  direction  of  a  greater  sim- 

223 


The  Tempest 

plicity  of  treatment.      This  progress  is  chiefly   due 
to    the    increased   facilities  for    economy     in     the 
lighting  of  scenery — suggestion  is  often  stronger  than 
actuality    where    purely  fantastic    and   imaginative 
works  are  concerned.     I  would,  of  course,  not  apply 
this    law   to   scenes  of  realism,   in  which  most  of 
Shakespeare's  plays  pass.    In  Hamlet  I  have  found 
myself  most  happy  in  the  purely  suggestive  surround- 
ings of  tapestries,  and  I  have  received  assurances  from 
many  playgoers  that  they  were  more  wipressed  by 
this  mode  of  treating  the  play  than  by  any  other.     In 
our  recent  production  of  Macbeth,  too,  the  scenery 
was  characterised  by  simple  grandeur  rather  than  by 
magnificence  of  detail.     Rugged  simplicity  was  the 
note    of  an   admirable   production    of  King   Lear 
at  the  Haymarket  Theatre.     It  would,  of  course,  be 
an  artistic  mistake  to  apply  this  treatment  to  such 
plays    as   Julius    Caesar   or  Richard  II.   or  Henry 
VIII.,     or    indeed    to    any    of    the   history   plays. 
Simplicity  is  certainly  an  enviable  state.    In    life 
— as  in  art — it  is  only  arrived   at   after  wandering 
through    the    maze    of  complexity.      It  is  the  slow 
process  of  elimination  of  unessentials. 


KING     HENRY    VIII 


INTRODUCTORY 

In  these  notes,  written  as  a  holiday  task,  it  is 
not  intended  to  give  an  exhaustive  record  of  the 
events  of  Henry's  reign ;  but  rather  to  offer  an 
impression  of  the  more  'prominent  personages  in 
Shakespeare's  play ;  and  perhaps  to  aid  the 
playgoer  in  a  fuller  appreciation  of  the  conditions 
which  governed  their  actions. 

Marienbad,  1910. 


KING     HE.NRY     VIII. 


XJTOLBEIN,  with  skilful  brush,  has  drawn  the 
*•*■  character  and  written  the  history  of  Henry 
in  his  great  picture.  Masterful,  cruel,  crafty, 
merciless,     courageous,     sensual,     through-seeing, 

humorous,  mean,  matter  of  fact, 
His  worldly-wise,  and  of  indomitable  will, 

Character.       Henry    the    Eighth    is    perhaps    the 

most  outstanding  figure  in  English 
history.  The  reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  The  genial 
adventurer  with  sporting  tendencies  and  large- 
hearted  proclivities  is  always  popular  with  the 
mob,  and  '  Bluff  King  Hal ,:  was  of  the  eternal 
type  adored  by  the  people.  He  had  a  certain 
outward   and   inward    affinity  with    Nero.      Like 

227 


King  Henry  VIII. 

Nero,  he  was  corpulent ;  like  Nero,  he  was 
red-haired ;  like  Nero,  he  sang  and  poetised ; 
like  Nero,  he  was  a  lover  of  horsemanship,  a 
master  of  the  arts,  and  the  slave  of  his  passions. 
If  his  private  vices  were  great,  his  public  virtues 
were  no  less  considerable.  He  had  the  ineffable 
quality  called  charm,  and  the  appearance  of  good- 
nature which  captivated  all  who  came  within  the 
orbit  of  his  radiant  personality.  He  was  the 
beau  gargon,  endearing  himself  to  all  women  by 
his  compelling  and  conquering  manhood.  Henry 
was  every  inch  a  man,  but  he  was  no  gentleman. 
He  chucked  even  Justice  under  the  chin,  and 
Justice  winked  her  blind  eye. 

It  is  extraordinary  that,  in  spite  of  his  brutality, 
both  Katharine  of  Aragon  and  Anne  Boleyn 
spoke  of  him  as  a  model  of  kindness.  This 
cannot  be  accounted  for  merely  by  that  divinity 
which  doth  hedge  a  king. 

There  is,  above  all,  in  the  face  of  Henry,  as 
limned  by  Holbein,  that  look  of  impenetrable 
mystery  which  was  the  background  of  his  character. 
Many  royal  men  have  this  strange  quality  ;  with 
some  it  is  inborn,  with  others  it  is  assumed. 
Cavendish,  who  was  Wolsey's  faithful  secre- 
tary— he  who  after  the  Cardinal's  fall  wrote 
the  interesting  "  Life  of  Wolsey,"  one  of  the 
manuscript  copies  of  which  evidently  fell  into 
Shakespeare's  hands  before  he  wrote  Henry  VIII. 

228 


King  Henry  VIII. 

— records  this  saying  of  Henry :  "  Three  may 
keep  counsel,  if  two  be  away  ;  and  if  I  thought 
my  cap  knew  my  counsel,  I  would  throw  it  in 
the  fire  and  burn  it."  Referring  to  this  passage, 
Brewer  says,  "  Never  had  the  King  spoke  a  truer 
word  or  described  himself  more  accurately.  Few 
would  have  thought  that,  under  so  careless  and 
splendid  an  exterior — the  very  ideal  of  bluff, 
open-hearted  good  humour  and  frankness — there 
lay  a  watchful  and  secret  mind  that  marked  what 
was  going  on  without  seeming  to  mark  it ;  kept 
its  own  counsel  until  it  was  time  to  strike,  and 
then  struck  as  suddenly  and  remorselessly  as  a 
beast  of  prey.  It  was  strange  to  witness  so  much 
subtlety  combined  with  so  much  strength." 

There  was  something  baffling  and  terrifying  in 
the  mysterious  bonhomie  of  the  King.  In  spite  of 
Caesar's  dictum,  it  is  the  fat  enemy  who  is  to  be 
feared ;   a  thin  villain  is  more  easily  seen  through. 

Henry's  antecedents  were  far  from  glorious.  The 
Tudors  were  a  Welsh  family  of  somewhat  humble 
stock.  Henry  VII. 's  great-grandfather 
Jfis  was  butler  or  steward  to  the  Bishop 

A  ncestry.  of  Bangor,  whose  son,  Owen  Tudor, 
coming  to  London,  obtained  a  clerk- 
ship of  the  Wardrobe  to  Henry  V.'s  Queen, 
Catherine  of  France.  Within  a  few  years  of 
Henry's  death,  the  widowed  Queen  and  her  clerk 
of  the  wardrobe  were  secretly  living  together  as 

229 


King  Henry  VIII. 

man  and  wife.  The  two  sons  of  this  morganatic 
match,  Edmund  and  Jasper,  were  favoured  by 
their  half  brother,  Henry  VI.  Edmund,  the  elder, 
was  knighted,  and  then  made  Earl  of  Richmond. 
In  1453  he  was  formally  declared  legitimate,  and 
enrolled  a  member  of  the  King's  Council.  Two 
years  later  he  married  the  Lady  Margaret  Beaufort, 
a  descendant  of  Edward  III.  It  was  this  union 
between  Edmund  Tudor  and  Margaret  Beaufort 
which  gave  Henry  VII.  his  claim  by  descent  to 
the  English  throne. 

The  popularity  of  the  Tudors  was,  no  doubt, 
enhanced  by  the  fact  that  with  their  line  kings 
of  decisively  English  blood  for  the  first  time  since 
the  Norman  Conquest  sat  on  the  English  throne. 

When  Henry  VIII.  ascended  the  throne  in 
1509,  England  regarded  him  with  almost  universal 
loyalty.  The  memory  of  the  long 
His  Early  years  of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses  and 
Days.  the   wars   of   the    Pretenders,  during 

the  reign  of  his  father,  were  fresh 
in  the  people's  mind.  No  other  than  he  could 
have  attained  to  the  throne  without  civil  war. 

Within  two  months  he  married  Katharine  of 
Aragon,  his  brother's  widow,  and  a  few  days 
afterwards  the  King  and  Queen  were  crowned 
with  great  splendour  in  Westminster  Abbey.  He 
was  still  in  his  eighteenth  year,  of  fine  physical 
development,  but  of  no  special  mental  precocity. 

230 


King  Henry  VIII. 

For  the  first  five  vears  of  his  reign  he  was  in- 
fluenced  by  his  Council,  and  especially  by  his 
father-in-law,  Ferdinand  the  Catholic,  giving  little 
indication  of  the  later  mental  vigour  and  power  of 
initiation  which  were  to  make  his  reign  so  memor- 
able in  the  annals  of  England. 

The  political  situation  in  Europe  was  a  difficult 
one  for  Henry  to  deal  with.  France  and  Spain 
were  the  rivals  for  Imperial  dominion.  England 
was  in  danger  of  falling  between  two  stools,  such 
was  the  eagerness  of  each  that  the  other  should 
not  support  her.  Henry,  through  his  marriage 
with  Katharine,  began  by  being  allied  to  Spain, 
and  this  alliance  involved  England  in  the  costly 
burden  of  war.  Henry's  resentment  at  the  empty 
result  of  this  warfare  broke  the  Spanish  alliance. 
Wolscy's  aim  was  to  keep  the  country  out  of  wars, 
and  a  long  period  of  peace  raised  England  to  the 
position  of  arbiter  of  Europe  in  the  balanced 
contest  between  France  and  Spain. 

It  was  in  connection  with  the  diplomacies  and 
intrigues,  now  with  one  Power,  now  with  the 
other,  that  in  1520  was  held  the 
The  Field  famous  meeting  with  the  French 
of  the  Cloth  King  at  Guisnes,  known  as  "  the 
of  Gold.  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold." 

That  the  destinies  of  kingdoms 
sometimes  hang  on  trifles  is  curiously  exemplified 
by  a  singular  incident  which  preceded  the  famous 

231 


King  Henry  VIII. 

meeting.  Francis  I.  prided  himself  on  his  beard. 
As  a  proof  of  his  desire  for  the  meeting  with  Francis, 
and  out  of  compliment  to  the  French  King,  Henry 
announced  his  resolve  to  wear  his  beard  uncut 
until  the  meeting  took  place.  But  he  reckoned 
without  his  wife.  Some  weeks  before  the  meeting, 
Louise  of  Savoy,  the  Queen-Mother  of  France, 
taxed  Boleyn,  the  English  Ambassador,  with  a 
report  that  Henry  had  put  off  his  beard.  "  I 
said,"  writes  Boleyn,  "  that,  as  I  suppose,  it  hath 
been  by  the  Queen's  desire,  for  I  told  my  lady 
that  I  have  hereafore  known  when  the  King's 
grace  hath  worn  long  his  beard,  that  the  Queen 
hath  daily  made  him  great  instance,  and  desired 
him  to  put  it  off  for  her  sake."  This  incident 
caused  some  resentment  on  the  part  of  the  French 
King,  who  was  only  pacified  by  Henry's  tact. 

So  small  a  matter  might  have  proved  a  casus 
belli. 

The  meeting  was  held  amidst  scenes  of  un- 
paralleled splendour.  The  temporary  palace 
erected  for  the  occasion  was  so  magnificent  that 
a  chronicler  tells  us  it  might  have  been  the  work 
of  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  Henry,  "the  goodliest 
prince  that  ever  reigned  over  the  realm  of  Eng- 
land," is  described  as  "  honnete,  hault  et  droit,  in 
manner  gentle  and  gracious,  rather  fat,  with  a 
red  beard,  large  enough,  and  very  becoming." 

On  this  occasion  Wolsey  was  accompanied  by 

232 


King  Henry  VIII. 

two  hundred  gentlemen  clad  in  crimson  velvet, 
and  had  a  bodyguard  of  two  hundred  archers. 
He  was  clothed  in  crimson  satin  from  head  to 
foot,  his  mule  was  covered  with  crimson  velvet, 
and  her  trappings  were  all  of  gold. 

There  were  jousts  and  many  entertainments 
and  rejoicings,  many  kissings  of  Royal  cheeks, 
but  the  Sovereigns  hated  each  other  cordially. 
When  monarchs  kiss  in  public  we  may  look  for 
a  shuffling  of  the  entente.  While  they  were  kissing 
they  were  plotting  against  each  other. 

A  more  unedifying  page  of  history  has  not 
been  written.  Appalling,  indeed,  are  the  shifts 
and  intrigues  which  go  to  make  up  the  records  of 
the  time. 

The  rulers  of  Europe  were  playing  a  game  of 
cards,  in  which  all  the  players  were  in  collusion 
with,  and  all  cheating,  each  other.  Temporising 
and  intriguing,  Henry  met  the  Spanish  monarch 
immediately  before  and  immediately  after  his 
meeting  with  the  French  King.  Within  a  few 
months  France  and  Spain  were  again  at  war; 
and  England,  in  a  fruitless  and  costly  struggle, 
fought  on  the  side  of  Spain. 

It  was  the  divorce  from  Katharine  of  Aragon 
and  its  momentous  consequences  which  finally 
put  an  end  to  the  alliance  with  Spain  ;  and  to 
the  struggle  with  France  succeeded  the  long 
struggle  with  Spain,  which  culminated  in  the  great 

233 


King  Henry  VIII. 

event   of   The   Armada    in    the   reign    of   Henry's 
daughter,  Elizabeth. 

However,  we  are  not  here  coneerned  with 
the  political  aspect  of  the  times,  but  rather 
with  the  dramatic  and  domestic  side  of  Henry's 
being.  In  the  play  of  Henry  VIII.,  the  author 
or  authors  (for  to  another  than  Shakespeare  is 
ascribed  a  portion  of  the  drama)  have  given 
us  as  impartial  a  view  of  his  character  as  a  due 
regard  for  truth  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  respect 
for  the  scaffold  on  the  other,  permitted. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  when  Henry 
ascended   the    throne    he   had   a   sincere   wish   to 

serve  God  and  uphold  the  right. 
*  His  In   his   early  years  he  was  really 

Aspirations,  devout  and  generous  in  almsgiving. 
Erasmus  affirmed  that  his  Court  was 
an  example  to  all  Christendom  for  learning  and 
piety.  To  the  Pope  he  paid  deference  as  to  the 
representative  of  God. 

With  youthful  enthusiasm,  the  young  King, 
looking  round,  and  seeing  corruption  on  every 
side,  said  to  Giustiniani,  the  Venetian  ambassador : 
"  Nor  do  I  see  any  faith  in  the  world  save  in  me, 
and  therefore  God  Almighty,  who  knows  this, 
prosper  my  affairs." 

In  Henry's  early  reign  England  was  trusted 
more  than  any  country  to  keep  faith  in  her 
alliances.     At  a  time  when   all   was   perfidy  and 

234 


King  Henry  VIII. 

treachery,  promises  and  alliances  were  made  only 
to  be  broken  when  self-interest  prompted.  His- 
tory, like  Nature  itself,  is  ruled  by  brutal  laws, 
and  to  play  the  round  game  of  politics  with  single- 
handed  honesty  would  be  to  lose  at  every  turn. 
Henry  was  born  into  an  inheritance  of  blood  and 
blackmail.  Corruption  has  its  vested  interests. 
It  is  useless  to  attempt  to  stem  the  recurrent  tide 
of  corruption  by  sprinkling  the  waves  with  holy 
water. 

Then  religion  was  a  part  of  men's  daily  lives, 
but  the  principles  of  Christianity  were  set  at 
naught  at  the  first  bidding  of  expediency. 

Men  murdered  to  live — the  axe  and  the  sword 
were  the  final  Court  of  Appeal.  Nor  does  the 
old  order  change  appreciably  in  the  course  of  a 
few  hundred  years.  In  international  politics,  as 
in  public  life,  when  self-interest  steps  in  Christianity 
goes  to  the  wall. 

Blood  is  thicker  than  water,  but  gold  is  thicker 
than  blood. 

To-day  we  grind  our  axe  with  a  difference. 
A  more  subtle  process  of  dealing  with  our  rivals 
obtains.  To-day  the  pen  is  mightier  than  the 
sword,  the  stylograph  is  more  deadly  than  the 
stiletto.  The  bravo  still  plies  his  trade.  He  no 
longer  takes  life,  but  character. 

Henry's  eyes  soon  opened.  His  character,  like 
his  body,  underwent  a  gradual  process  of  expansion. 

235 


King  Henry  VIII. 

Soon  the  lighter  side  of  kingship  was  not  dis- 
dained. One  authority  wrote  in  1515  :  "  He  is 
a  youngling,  cares  for  nothing  but 
His  girls  and  hunting."     He  was  an  in- 

Pastimes.  veterate  gambler,  and  turned  the 
sport  of  hunting  into  a  martyrdom, 
rising  at  four  or  five  in  the  morning  and  hunting- 
till  nine  or  ten  at  night.  Another  contemporary 
writes  :  "  He  devotes  himself  to  accomplishments 
and  amusements  day  and  night,  is  intent  on  nothing 
else,  and  leaves  business  to  Wolsey,  who  rules 
everything." 

As  a  sportsman,  Henry  was  the  beau-ideal  of 
his  people.  In  the  lists  he  especially  distinguished 
himself,  "  in  supernatural  feats,  changing  his 
horses,  and  making  them  fly  or  rather  leap,  to  the 
delight  and  ecstasy  of  everybody." 

He  also  gave  himself  to  masquerades  and 
charades.  We  are  told  :  "  It  was  at  the  Christ- 
mas festivals  at  Richmond  that  Henry  VIII. 
stole  from  the  side  of  the  Queen  during  the  jousts, 
and  returned  in  the  disguise  of  a  strange  Knight, 
astonishing  all  the  company  with  the  grace  and 
vigour  of  his  tilting.  At  first  the  King  appeared 
ashamed  of  taking  part  in  these  gladiatorial 
exercises,  but  the  applause  he  received  on  all 
sides  soon  inclined  him  openly  to  appear  on  every 
occasion  in  the  tilt-yard.  Katharine  humoured 
the  childish  taste  of  her  husband  for  disguisings 

236 


King  Henry  VIII. 

and  masquings,  by  pretending  great  surprise 
when  he  presented  himself  before  her  in  some 
assumed  character." 

He  was  gifted  with  enormous  energy ;  he 
could  ride  all  day,  changing  his  horses  nine  or 
ten  times  a  day  ;  then  he  would  dance  all  night ; 
even  then  his  energies  were  not  exhausted  ;  he 
would  write  what  the  courtiers  described  as  poetry, 
or  he  would  compose  music,  or  he  would  dash  off 
an  attack  on  Luther,  and  so  earn  from  the  Pope 
the  much-coveted  title  of  Fidei  Defensor. 

In  shooting  at  the  butt,  it  is  said,  Henry 
excelled,  drawing  the  best  bow  in  England.  At 
tennis,  too,  he  excelled  beyond  all  others.  He 
was  addicted  to  games  of  chance,  and  his  courtiers 
permitted  him  to  lose  as  much  as  £3,500  in  the 
course  of  one  year — scarcely  a  tactful  proceeding. 
He  played  with  taste  and  execution  on  the  organ, 
harpsichord,  and  lute.  He  had  a  powerful  voice, 
and  sang  with  great  accomplishment. 

One  of  Henry's  anthems,  "  O  Lord,  the  Maker 
of  all  thyng,"  is  said  to  be  of  the  highest  merit,  and 
is  still  sung  in  our  cathedrals.  In  his  songs  he  par- 
ticularly liked  to  dwell  on  his  constancy  as  a  lover : 

"  As  the  holly  groweth  green  and  never  changelh  hue, 
So  I  am — ever  have  been — unto  my  lady  true." 

And  again : 

"  For  whoso  loveth,  should  love  but  one." 
An  admirable  maxim. 

237 


King  Henry  VIII. 

"Pastime  with  Good  Company,"  composed 
and  written  by  Henry,  was  sung  in  the  production 
at  His  Majesty's  Theatre. 

In  spite  of  all  these  distractions,  Henry  was  an 
excellent  man  of  business  in  the  State.  Although 
he  began  by  throwing  himself  into 
As  States-  dissipation  with  the  energy  which 
man.  characterised     all     his     doings,     the 

autocrat  only  slumbered  in  Henry  ; 
and  before  many  years  had  passed  he  flung 
the  enormous  energy,  which  he  had  hitherto 
reserved  for  his  pleasure,  into  affairs  of  State. 

Under  Henry,  the  Navy  was  first  organised 
as  a  permanent  force.  His  power  of  detail  was 
prodigious  in  this  direction.  Ever  loving  the 
picturesque,  even  in  the  most  practical  affairs  of 
life,  Henry  "  acted  as  pilot  and  wore  a  sailor's  coat 
and  trousers,  made  of  cloth  of  gold,  and  a  gold 
chain  with  the  inscription,  Dieu  est  mon  droit,  to 
which  was  suspended  a  whistle  which  he  blew 
nearly  as  loud  as  a  trumpet."     A  strange  picture  ! 

He  was  a  practical  architect,  and  Whitehall 
Palace  and  many  other  great  buildings  owed  their 
masonry  to  his  hand. 

He  spoke  French,  Spanish,  Italian  and  Latin 
with  great  perfection. 

He  said  many  wise  things.  Of  the  much- 
debated  divorce,  Henry  said  :  "  The  law  of 
every  man's  conscience  be  but  a  private  Court,  yet 

238 


King  Henry  VIII. 

it  is  the  highest  and  supreme  Court  for  judgment 
or  justice."  As  the  most  unjust  wars  have  often 
produced  the  greatest  heroisms,  so  the  vilest  causes 
have  often  produced  the  profoundest  utterances. 

He  appears  to  have  been  at  peace  with  himself 
and  complacent  towards  God.  In  1541,  during 
his  temporary  happiness  with  Catherine  Howard, 
he  attended  mass  in  the  chapel,  and  "  receiving 
his  Maker,  gave  Him  most  hearty  thanks  for  the 
good  life  he  led  and  trusted  to  lead  with  his  wife  ; 
and  also  desired  the  Bishop  of  Lincoln  to  make  like 
prayer,  and  give  like  thanks  on  All  Souls'  Day." 

Henry  confessed  his  sins  every  day  during  the 
plague.  When  it  abated,  his  spirits  revived,  and 
he  wrote  daily  love-letters  to  Anne  Boleyn,  whom 
he  had  previously  banished  from  the  Court. 

A  stern  moralist  in  regard  to  the  conduct  of 
others,  he  had  an  indulgence  towards  himself 
which  enabled  him  somewhat  freely 
As  to    interpret    the    Divine    right    of 

Moralist.  Kings  as  Le  droit  de  seigneur.  But 
it  is  human  to  tolerate  in  ourselves 
the  failings  which  we  so  rightly  deprecate  in  our 
inferiors. 

So  strong  was  he  in  his  self-assurance,  that  he 
made  even  his  conscience  his  slave. 

Henry  sometimes  lacked  regal  taste.  The 
night  Anne  Boleyn  was  executed  he  supped  with 
Jane    Seymour ;     they    were    betrothed    the    next 

239 


King  Henry  VIII. 

morning,  and  married  ten  days  later.  It  is  also 
recorded  that  on  the  day  following  Katharine's 
death,  Henry  went  to  a  ball,  clad  all  in  yellow. 

The  commendation  or  condemnation  of  Henry's 
public  life  depends  upon  our  point  of  view — upon 
which  side  we  take  in  the  eternal  strife  between 
Church  and  State. 

In  this  dilemma  we  must  then  judge  by  results, 
for  the  truest  expression  of  a  man  is  his  work  ; 
his  greatness  or  his  littleness  is  measured  by  his 
output.  Henry  produced  great  results,  though  he 
may  have  been  the  unconscious  instrument  of 
Fate.  The  motives  which  guided  him  in  his  deal- 
ings with  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  may  have 
been  only  selfish — they  resulted  in  the  emancipa- 
tion of  England  from  the  tyranny  of  Popedom. 
A  Catholic  estimate  of  him  would,  of  course,  have 
been  wholly  condemnatory,  yet  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  his  quarrel  was  entirely  with  the 
supremacy  of  the  Pope,  and  that  otherwise  Henry's 
Church  retained  every  dogma  and  every  observance 
believed  in  and  practised  by  Roman  Catholics. 

His  learning  was   great,  and   it  was   illumined 
by  his  genius.     Gradually  he  learned   to  control 
others — to    do    this    he    learned    to 
fjjs  control    his     temper     when     control 

Greatness.       was     useful,     but    he    was     always 
able  to  make  diplomatic   use  of   his 
rage — a   faculty   ever   helpful   in   the   conduct   of 

240 


King  Henry  VIII. 

one's  life !  In  fact,  it  is  difficult  to  determine 
whose  genius  was  the  greater — Wolsey's  as  the 
diplomatist  and  administrator,  or  Henry's  as  the 
man  of  action,  the  figurehead  of  the  State.  Around 
him  he  gathered  the  great  men  of  his  time,  and 
their  learning  he  turned  to  his  own  account,  with 
that  adaptiveness  which  is  the  peculiar  attribute 
of  genius.  Shakespeare  himself  was  not  more 
assimilative.  In  Wolsey,  Henry  appreciated  the 
mighty  minister,  and  this  is  one  of  his  claims  to 
greatness,  for  graciously  to  permit  others  to  be 
great  is  a  sign  of  greatness  in  a  king. 


WOLSEY 

Wolsey  was  born  at  Ipswich,  probably  in  the 

year    1471.     His    father,    Robert    Wolsey,    was    a 

grazier,  and  perhaps  also  a  butcher,  in  well-to-do 

circumstances.    Sent  to  Oxford  at  the  age  of  eleven, 

at  fifteen  he  was  made  a  Bachelor  of 

His  Early       Arts.     He  became  a  parish  priest  of 

Life.  St.  Mary's,  at  Lymington,    in   1500. 

Within  a  year  he   was   subjected   to 

the  indignity  of  being  put  into  the  public  stocks 

— for  what  reason  is  not  known.     It  has  been  said 

that    he    was    concerned    in    a    drunken    fray.     I 

prefer  to  think  that,  in  an  unguarded  moment,  he 

had  been  tempted  to  speak  the  truth.     No  doubt 

this  was  his  first  lesson  in  diplomacy. 

Q  241 


King  Henry  VIII. 

In  1507  Wolscy  entered  the  service  of  Henry 
VII.  as  chaplain,  and  seems  to  have  acted  as 
secretary  to  Richard  Fox,  Lord  Privy  Seal.  Thus 
Wolsey  was  trained  in  the  policy  of  Henry  VII., 
which  he  never  forgot. 

When  Henry  VIII.  came  to  the  throne,  he  soon 
realised  Wolsey's  value,  and  allowed  him  full 
scope  for  his  ambition. 

Wolsey  thought  it  desirable  to  become  a 
Cardinal — a  view  that  was  shared  by  Henry, 
whose  right  hand  Wolsey  had  be- 
His  Grow-  come.  In  1514  Henry  wrote  to  the 
ing  Power.  Pope  asking  that  the  hat  should  be 
conferred  on  his  favourite,  who  in  the 
following  year  was  made  Lord  Chancellor  of  Eng- 
land. There  was  some  hesitancy,  which  bribery 
and  threats  overcame,  and  in  1515  Wolsey  was 
created  Cardinal,  in  spite  of  the  hatred  which 
Leo  X.  bore  him.  Having  won  this  instalment 
of  greatness,  Wolsey  promptly  asked  for  the 
Lcgateship,  which  should  give  him  precedence 
over  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  This 
ambition  was  realised  three  years  later,  but 
only  by  what  practically  amounted  to  political 
and  ecclesiastical  blackmail.  In  the  Church 
and  State  Wolsey  now  stood  second  only  to  the 
King. 

As  an  instance  of  the  state  that  he  kept,  we  are 
told  that  he  had  as  many  as  500  retainers — among 

242 


King  Henry  VIII. 

them  many  lords  and  ladies.      Cavendish,  his  sec- 
retary, thus  describes  his  pomp  when  he  walked 

abroad  :  "  First  went  the  Cardinal's 
His  attendants,    attired    in    boddices    of 

Retinue.  crimson    velvet    with    gold    chains, 

and  the  inferior  officers  in  coats  of 
scarlet  bordered  with  black  velvet.  After  these 
came  two  gentlemen  bearing  the  great  seal  and 
his  Cardinal's  hat,  then  two  priests  with  silver 
pillars  and  poleaxes,  and  next  two  great  crosses 
of  silver,  whereof  one  of  them  was  for  his  Arch- 
bishoprick  and  the  other  for  his  legacy,  borne 
always  before  him,  whithersoever  he  went  or  rode. 
Then  came  the  Cardinal  himself,  very  sumptuously, 
on  a  mule  trapped  with  crimson  velvet  and  his 
stirrup  of  copper  gilt."  Sometimes  he  preferred 
to  make  his  progress  on  the  river,  for  which 
purpose  he  had  a  magnificent  State  barge 
"  furnished  with  yeomen  standing  on  the  bayles 
and  crowded  with  his  Gentlemen  within  and 
without." 

His  stables  were  also  extensive.  His  choir  far 
excelled  that  of  the  King.  Besides  all  the  officials 
attendant  on  the  Cardinal,  Wolsey  had  160  personal 
attendants,  including  his  High  Chamberlain,  vice- 
chamberlain,  twelve  gentlemen  ushers,  daily 
waiters,  eight  gentlemen  ushers  and  waiters  of  his 
privy  chamber,  nine  or  ten  lords,  forty  persons 
acting  as  gentlemen  cupbearers,   carvers,   servers, 

243 


King  Henry  VIII. 

etc.,  six  yeomen  ushers,  eight  grooms  of  the 
chamber,  forty-six  yeomen  of  his  chamber  (one 
daily  to  attend  upon  his  person),  sixteen  doctors 
and  chaplains,  two  secretaries,  three  clerks,  and 
four  counsellors  learned  in  the  law.  As  Lord 
Chancellor,  he  had  an  additional  and  separate 
retinue,  almost  as  numerous,  including  ministers, 
armourers,   serjeants-at-arms,   herald,   etc. 

Nor  was  he  above  using  the  gentle  suasion  of 
his    office    to    obtain    sumptuous    gifts    from    the 
representatives    of    foreign    powers — 
Gifts  from       for    Giustiniani,    on    his    return    to 
Foreign  Venice,    reported    to   the    Doge   and 

Powers.  Senate  that  "  Cardinal  Wolsey  is  very 

anxious  for  the  signory  to  send  him  a 
hundred  Damascene  carpets  for  which  he  has  asked 
several  times,  and  expected  to  receive  them  by  the 
last  galleys.  This  present  might  make  him  pass  a 
decree  in  our  favour  ;  and,  at  any  rate,  it  would 
render  the  Cardinal  friendly  to  our  nation  in  other 
matters."  The  carpets,  it  seems,  were  duly  sent 
to  the  Cardinal. 

To  show  his  disregard  for  money,  it  may  be 
mentioned    that    in     order    to    ob- 
His  tain  pure  water  for  himself  and  his 

Drinking  household,  and  not  being  satisfied 
Water.  with  the   drinking  water    at    Hamp- 

ton Court,  Wolsey  had  the  water 
brought  from  the  springs  at  Coombe  Hill  by  means 

244 


King  Henry  VIII. 

of  leaden  pipes,  at  a  cost,  it  is  said,  of  something 
like  £50,000. 

Wolsey  seems  to  have  been  a  lover  of  good 

food,  since  Skelton,  for  whose  verse 
His  Table.      the  Cardinal   had   perhaps  expressed 

contempt,  wrote  : 

"  To  drynke  and  for  to  eate 
Swete  hypocras  *  and  swete  meate 
To  keep  his  flesh  chast 
In  Lent  for  a  repast 
He  eateth  capon's  stew, 
Fesaunt  and  partriche  mewed 
Hennes  cheekynges  and  pygges." 

Skelton,  it  should  be  explained,  was  the  Poet 
Laureate.  It  appears  that  on  this  score  of  his 
delicate  digestion,  Wolsey  procured  a  dispensation 
from  the  Pope  for  the  Lenten  observances. 

He  had  not  a  robust  constitution,  and  suffered 
from  many  ailments.  On  one  occasion,  Henry 
sent  him  some  pills — it  is  not  recorded,  however, 
that  Wolsey  swallowed  them. 

Cavendish  speaks  of  a  peculiar  habit  of  the 
great  Cardinal.  He  tells  us  that,  "  Whenever  he 
was  in  a  crowd  or  pestered  with 
His  Orange,  suitors,  he  most  commonly  held  to 
his  nose  a  very  fair  orange  whereof 
the  meat  or  substance  within  was  taken  out, 
and   filled   up   again   with   the   part  of  a  sponge 

♦Hypocras — "A  favourite  medicated  drink,  compound   of 
wine,  usually  red,  with  spices  and  sugar." 

245 


King  Henry  VIII. 

wherein  was  vinegar  and  other  confections  against 
the  pestilent  airs  !  "  The  habit  may  have  given 
offence  to  importunate  mayors  and  others — indeed, 
the  Poet  Laureate  himself  may  have  been  thus  af- 
fronted by  the  imperious  Cardinal,  when  he  wrote  : 
"  He  is  set  so  high 

In  his  hierarchy 

Of  frantic  phrenesy 

And  foolish  fantasy 

That  in  the  Chamber  of  Stars 

All  matters  there  he  mars. 

Clapping  his  rod  on  the  Board 

No  man  dare  speak  a  word  ; 
***** 

Some  say  '  yes  '  and  some 
Sit  still  as  they  were  dumb. 
Thus  thwarting  over  them, 
He  ruleth  all  the  roast 
With  bragging  and  with  boast. 
Borne  up  on  every  side 
With  pomp  and  with  pride." 

As  a  proof  of  his  sensuous  tastes,  Cavendish  wrote: 

"  The  subtle  perfumes  of  musk  and  sweet  amber 
There  wanted  none  to  perfume  all  my  chamber." 

That  Wolsey,  like  Henry,  was  possessed  of  a 
sense  of  humour  we  have  abundant  evidence  in 
his  utterances.  Yet  he  kept  a  Fool 
His  Fool.  about  him — possibly  in  order  that 
he  might  glean  the  opinions  of  the 
courtiers  and  common  people.  After  Wolsey's  fall, 
he  sent  this   Fool  as   a   present  to  King  Henry. 

246 


King  Henry  VIII. 

But  so  loth  was  the  Fool  to  leave  his  master  and 
to  suffer  what  he  considered  a  social  descent,  that 
six  tall  yeomen  had  to  conduct  him  to  the  Court  ; 
"  for,"  says  Cavendish,  "  the  poor  fool  took  on 
and  fired  so  in  such  a  rage  when  he  saw  that  he 
must  needs  depart  from  my  lord.  Yet,  notwith- 
standing, they  conveyed  him  with  Master  Norris  to 
the  Court,where  the  King  received  him  most  gladly." 
At  his  Palace  of  Hampton  Court  there  were 
280  beds  always  ready  for  strangers.     These  beds 

were  of  great  splendour,  being  made 
Hampton  of  red,  green  and  russet  velvet,  satin 
Court.  and   silk,    and   all    with   magnificent 

canopies.  The  counterpanes,  of 
which  there  were  many  hundreds,  we  are  told,  were 
of  "  tawny  damask,  lined  with  blue  buckram ; 
blue  damask  with  flowers  of  gold  ;  others  of  red 
satin  with  a  great  rose  in  the  midst,  wrought  with 
needlework  and  with  garters."  Another  is  de- 
scribed as  "  of  blue  sarcenet,  with  a  tree  in  the 
midst  and  beastes  with  scriptures,  all  wrought 
with  needlework."  The  splendour  of  these  beds 
beggars  all  description. 

His  gold  and  silver  plate  at  Hampton  Court 
alone,   was   valued   by   the   Venetian  Ambassador 

as  worth  300,000  golden  ducats, 
His  Plate.       which    would    be    the    equivalent    in 

modern  coin  of  a  million  and  a 
half  !     The    silver    was    estimated    at    a    similar 

247 


King  Henry  VIII. 

amount.  It  is  said  that  the  quality  was  no  less 
striking  than  the  quantity,  for  Wolsey  insisted 
on  the  most  artistic  workmanship.  He  had  also 
a  bowl  of  gold  '  with  a  cover  garnished  with 
rubies,  diamonds,  pearls  and  a  sapphire  set  in 
a  goblet."  These  gorgeous  vessels  were  decor- 
ated with  the  Cardinal's  hat,  and  sometimes  too — 
less  appropriately  perhaps — with  images  of  Christ ! 

It  is  said  that  the  decorations  and  furniture  of 
Wolsey's  palace  were  on  so  splendid  a  scale  that 
it  threw  the  King's  into  the  shade. 

Like  a  wise  minister,  Wolsey  did  not  neglect 
to  entertain  the  King  and  keep  his 
His  mind    on    trivial    things.      Hampton 

Prodigal  Court  had  become  the  scene  of  un- 

Splendour.  restrained  gaiety.  Music  was  always 
played  on  these  occasions,  and  the 
King  frequently  took  part  in  the  revels,  dancing, 
masquerading  and  singing,  accompanying  himself 
on  the  harpsichord  or  lute. 

The  description  by  Cavendish  of  the  famous 
feast  given  by  the  Cardinal  to  the  French  am- 
bassadors gives  a  graphic  account  of  his  prodigal 
splendour.  As  to  the  delicacies  which  were  fur- 
nished at  the  supper,  Cavendish  writes  :  "  Anon 
came  up  the  second  course  with  so  many  dishes, 
subtleties  and  curious  devices,  which  were  above 
a  hundred  in  number,  of  so  goodly  proportion 
and  costly,  that  I  suppose  the  Frenchmen  never 

548 


King  Henry  VIII. 

saw  the  like.  The  wonder  was  no  less  than  it 
was  worthy,  indeed.  There  were  castles  with 
images  in  the  same  ;  Paul's  Church  and  steeple, 
in  proportion  for  the  quantity  as  well  counterfeited 
as  the  painter  should  have  painted  it  upon  a  cloth 
or  wall.  There  were  beasts,  birds,  fowls  of  divers 
kinds,  and  personages,  most  lively  made  and 
counterfeit  in  dishes  ;  some  fighting,  as  it  were, 
with  swords,  some  with  guns  and  crossbows  ; 
some  vaulting  and  leaping  ;  some  dancing  with 
ladies,  some  in  complete  harness,  justing  with 
spears,  and  with  many  more  devices  than  I  am 
able  with  my  wit  to  describe." 

Giustiniani,  speaking  of  one  of  these  banquets, 
writes  :  '  The  like  of  it  was  never  given  either  by 
Cleopatra  or  Caligula."  We  must  remember  that 
Wolsey  surrounded  himself  with  such  worldly 
vanities  less  from  any  vulgarity  in  his  nature  than 
from  a  desire  to  work  upon  the  common  mind,  ever 
ready  to  be  impressed  by  pomp  and  circumstance. 

If  the  outer  man  were  thus  caparisoned,  what 
of  Wolsey's  mind  ?  Its  furniture  too,  beggared 
all  description.  Amiable  as  Wolsey 
The  Mind  could  be,  he  could  also  on  occasions 
of  Wolsey.  be  as  brusque  as  his  royal  master. 
A  contemporary  writer  says :  "I 
had  rather  be  commanded  to  Rome  than  deliver 
letters  to  him  and  wait  an  answer.  When  he 
walks   in    the    Park,   he   will    suffer    no   suitor   to 

249 


King  Henry  VIII. 

come  nigh  unto  him,  but  commands  him  away  as 
far  as  a  man  will  shoot  an  arrow." 

Yet  to  others  he  could  be  of  sweet  and  gentle 
disposition,  and  ready  to  listen  and  to  help  with 
advice. 

"  Lofty  and  sour  to  them  that  loved  him  not, 
But  to  those  men  that  sought  him  sweet  as  summer." 

To  those  who  regard  characters  as  either  black 
or  white,  Wolsey's  was  indeed  a  contradiction. 
Charges  of  a  personal  character  have  been  brought 
against  the  great  prelate,  which  need  not  here  be 
referred  to,  unless  it  be  to  say  that  if  they  were 
true,  by  so  much  the  less  was  he  a  priest,  by  so 
much  the  more  was  he  a  man. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  Cardinal  made 
several  attempts  to  become  Pope — but  this  enter- 
prise was  doomed  to  failure,  although  in  it  he 
was  supported  warmly  by  the  King.  To  gain 
this  end  much  bribery  was  needed, 
His  "  especially  to  the  younger  men  who 

Ambition.  are  generally  the  most  needy,"  as 
the  Cardinal  said.  Wolsey  was  a 
sufficiently  accomplished  social  diplomatist  to 
conciliate  the  young,  for  their  term  of  office  begins 
to-morrow,  and  gold  is  the  key  of  consciences.  He 
was  hated  and  feared,  flattered,  cajoled  and  brow- 
beaten where  possible.  But  as  a  source  of  income 
he  was  ever  held  in  high  regard  by  the  Pope. 

His  own  annual  income  from  bribes — royal  and 

250 


King  Henry  VIII. 

otherwise — was  indeed  stupendous,  though  these 
were  received  with  the  knowledge  of  the  King. 

So  great  was  the  power  to  which  YVolsey  attained 
that  Fox  said  of  him  :  "  We  have  to  deal  with  the 
Cardinal,  who  is  not  Cardinal  but  King."  He 
wrote  of  himself,  "  Ego  et  rex  metis,"  and  had  the 
initials,  "  T.W."  and  the  Cardinal's  hat  stamped 
on  the  King's  coins.  These  were  among  the  charges 
brought  against  him  in  his  fall. 

To  his  ambitions  there  was  no  limit.  For  the 
spoils  of  office  he  had  "  an  unbounded  stomach." 
As  an  instance  of  his  pretensions  it  is  recorded 
that  during  the  festivities  of  the  Emperor's  visit 
to  England  in  1520,  "  Wolsey  alone  sat  down  to 
dinner  with  the  royal  party,  while  peers,  like  the 
Dukes  of  Suffolk  and  Buckingham,  performed 
menial  offices  for  the  Cardinal,  as  well  as  for 
Emperor,  King  and  Queen." 

When  he  met  Charles  at  Bruges  in  1521  "  he 
treated  the  Emperor  of  Spain  as  an  equal.  He 
did  not  dismount  from  his  mule,  but  merely  doffed 
his  cap,  and  embraced  as  a  brother  the  temporal 
head  of  Christendom." 

"  He  never  granted  audience  either  to  English 
peers  or  foreign  ambassadors"  (says  Giustiniani) 
"  until  the  third  or  fourth  time  of  asking."  Small 
wonder  that  he  incurred  the  hatred  of  the  nobility 
and  the  jealousy  of  the  King.  During  his  embassy 
to  France  in  1527,  it  is  said    that  "  his  attendants 

251 


King  Henry  VIII. 

served  cap  in  hand,  and  when  bringing  the  dishes 
knelt  before  him  in  the  act  of  presenting  them. 
Those  who  waited  on  the  Most  Christian  King, 
kept  their  caps  on  their  heads,  dispensing  with 
such  exaggerated  ceremonies."  Had  Wolsey's  in- 
solence been  tempered  by  his  sense  of  humour, 
his  fall  might  have  been  on  a  softer  place,  as  his 
fool  is  believed  to  have  remarked. 

In  his  policy  of  the  reform  of  the  Church, 
Wolsey  dealt  as  a  giant  with  his  gigantic  task. 
To  quote  a  passage  from  Taunton  : 
His  Policy.  "  Ignorance,  he  knew,  was  the  root 
of  most  of  the  mischief  of  the 
day ;  so  by  education  he  endeavoured  to  give 
men  the  means  to  know  better.  Falsehood  can 
only  be  expelled  by  Truth.  .  .  .  Had  the 
other  prelates  of  the  age  realised  the  true  cause 
of  the  religious  disputes,  and  how  much  they  them- 
selves were  responsible  for  the  present  Ignorance, 
the  sacred  name  of  religion  would  not  have  had 
so  bloody  a  record  in  this  country." 

Wolsey's  idea  was,  in  fact,  to  bring  the  clergy 
in  touch  with  the  thought  and  conditions  of  the 
time.  It  is  wonderful  to  reflect  that  this  one  brain 
should  have  controlled  the  secular  and  ecclesiastical 
destinies  of  Christendom. 

To  reform  the  Church  would  seem  to  have  been 
an  almost  superhuman  undertaking,  but  to  a 
man  of  Wolsey's  greatness  obstacles  are  only  in- 

252 


King  Henry  VIII. 

centives  to  energy.  He  was  "  eager  to  cleanse 
the  Church  from  the  accumulated  evil  effects  of 
centuries  of  human  passions."  A  great  man  is 
stronger  than  a  system,  while  he  lives  ;  but  the 
system  often  outlives  the  man.  Wolsey  lived  in 
a  time  the  very  atmosphere  of  which  was  charged 
with  intrigue.  Had  he  not  yielded  to  a  govern- 
ment by  slaughter,  he  could  not  have  existed. 

The  Cardinal  realised  that  ignorance  was  one 
of  the  chief  causes  of  the  difficulties  in  the  Church. 
So  with  great  zeal  he  devoted  himself  to  the  found- 
ing of  two  colleges,  one  in  Ipswich,  the  other  in 
Oxford.  His  scheme  was  never  entirely  carried 
out,  for  on  Wolsey's  fall  his  works  were  not  com- 
pleted. The  College  at  Ipswich  fell  into  abeyance, 
but  his  college  at  Oxford  was  spared  and  refounded. 
Originally  called  Cardinal  College,  it  was  renamed 
Christ  Church,  so  that  not  even  in  name  was  it 
allowed  to  be  a  memorial  of  Wolsey's  greatness. 

For  a  long  time  Wolsey  was  regarded  merely 
as  the  type  of  the  ambitious  and  arrogant  eccle- 
siastic whom  the  Reformation  had 
His  Genius,  made  an  impossibility  in  the  future. 
It  was  not  till  the  mass  of  docu- 
ments relating  to  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  was 
published  that  it  was  possible  to  estimate  the 
greatness  of  the  Cardinal's  schemes.  He  took  a 
wider  view  of  the  problems  of  his  time  than  any 
statesman  had  done  before.     He  had  a  genius  for 

253 


King  Henry  VIII. 

diplomacy.  He  was  an  artist  and  enthusiast  in 
politics.  They  were  not  a  pursuit  to  him,  but  a 
passion.  Not  perhaps  unjustly  has  he  been  called 
the  greatest  statesman  England  ever  produced. 

England,  at  the  beginning  of  Henry  VIII. 's  reign, 
was  weakened  after  the  struggles  of  the  Civil  Wars, 
and  wished  to  find  peace  at  home  at  the  cost  of 
obscurity  abroad.  But  it  was  this  England  which 
Wolsey's  policy  raised  "  from  a  third-rate  state  of 
little  account  into  the  highest  circle  of  European 
politics."  Wolsey  did  not  show  his  genius  to  the 
best  advantage  in  local  politics,  but  in  diplomacy. 
He  could  only  be  inspired  by  the  gigantic  things  of 
statecraft.  When  he  was  set  by  Henry  to  deal  with 
the  sordid  matter  of  the  divorce,  he  felt  restricted  and 
cramped.  He  was  better  as  a  patriot  than  as  a  royal 
servant.  It  was  this  feeling  of  being  sullied  and 
unnerved  in  the  uncongenial  skirmishings  of  the 
divorce  that  jarred  on  his  sensitive  nature  and  made 
his  ambitious  hand  lose  its  cunning.  A  first-rate 
man  may  not  do  second-rate  things  well. 

Henry  and  Wolsey  were  two  giants  littered  in  one 
day.  Wolsey  had  realised  his  possibilities  of  power 
before  Henry.  But  when  Henry  once  learned  how 
easy  it  was  for  him  to  get  his  own  way,  Wolsey  learned 
how  dependent  he  necessarily  was  on  the  King's  good 
will.  And  then,  "  the  nation  which  had  trembled 
before  Wolsey,  learned  to  tremble  before  the  King 
who  could  destroy  Wolsey  with  a  breath." 

254 


King  Henry  VIII. 

Had  Wolsey  been  able  to  fulfil  his  own  ideals, 
had  he  been  the  head  of  a  republic  and  not  the 
servant  of  a  king,  his  public  record  would  no  doubt 
have  been  on  a  higher  ethical  plane.  That  he 
himself  realised  this  is  shown  by  his  pathetic  words 
to  Sir  William  Kingston,  which  have  been  but 
slightly  paraphrased  by  Shakespeare  :  "  Well,  well, 
Master  Kingston,  I  see  how  the  matter  against  me 
is  framed,  but  if  I  had  served  my  God  as  diligently 
as  I  have  done  the  King,  He  would  not  have  given 
me  over  in  my  grey  hairs."  In  this  frankness  we 
recognise  once  again  a  flicker  of  greatness — one 
might  almost  say  a  touch  of  divine  humour. 

Alas,  Wolsey  learned  to  howl  with  the  wolves 
and  to  bleat  with  the  lambs.  In  paddling  too  long 
in  the  putrescent  puddles  of  politics  he  lost  his 
sense  of  ethical  proportion. 

The  lives  of  great  men  compose  themselves 
dramatically ;  Wolsey's  end  was  indeed  a  fit 
theme  for  the  dramatist. 

In  his  later  years,  Wolsey  began  to  totter  on 
his  throne.  The  King  had  become  more  and 
more  masterful.  It  was  impossible 
His  Fall.  for  two  such  stormy  men  to  act 
permanently  in  concord.  In  1528, 
Wolsey  said  that  as  soon  as  he  had  accomplished 
his  ambition  of  reconciling  England  and  France, 
and  reforming  the  English  laws  and  settling  the 
succession,  "  he  would  retire  and  serve  God  for  the 

255 


King  Henry  VIII. 

rest  of  his  days."  In  1529  he  lost  his  hold  over 
Parliament  and  over  Henry.  The  Great  Seal  was 
taken  from  him. 

The  end  of  Wolsey  was  indeed  appalling  in 
its  sordid  tragedy.  The  woman  had  prevailed — 
Anne's  revenge  was  sufficiently  complete  to  satisfy 
even  a  woman  scorned.  The  King,  too,  was 
probably  more  inclined  to  lend  a  willing  ear  to 
her  whisperings,  since  he  had  grown  jealous  of  his 
minister's  greatness.  He  paid  to  his  superior 
the  tribute  of  hatred.  Henry,  who  had  treated 
the  Cardinal  as  his  friend  and  "  walked  with  him 
in  the  garden  arm  in  arm  and  sometimes  with  his 
arm  thrown  caressingly  round  his  shoulder,"  now 
felt  very  differently  towards  his  one-time  favourite. 

Covetous  of  Wolsey's  splendour,  he  asked  him 
why  he,  a  subject,  should  have  so  magnificent  an 
abode  as  Hampton  Court,  whereupon  Wolsey 
diplomatically  answered  (feeling  perhaps  the  twitch 
of  a  phantom  rope  around  his  neck),  "  To  show 
how  noble  a  palace  a  subject  may  offer  to  his 
sovereign."  The  King  was  not  slow  to  accept 
this  offer,  and  thenceforth  made  Hampton  Court 
Palace  his  own. 

Wolsey,  too,  was  failing  in  body — the  sharks 
that  follow  the  ship  of  State  were  already  scenting 
their  prey.  As  the  King  turned  his  back  on 
Wolsey,  Wolsey  turned  his  face  to  God.  Accused 
of  high  treason  for  having  acted  as  Legate,  Wolsey 

256 


King  Henry  VIII. 

pleaded  guilty  of  the  offence,  committed  with  the 
approval  of  the  King.  He  was  deprived  of  his 
worldly  goods,  and  retired  to  his  house  at  Esher. 
Cavendish  says  :  "  My  Lord  and  his  family 
continued  there  the  space  of  three  or  four  weeks, 
without  beds,  sheets,  tablecloths,  cups 
Wolsey  an  and  dishes  to  eat  our  meat,  or  to 
Exile  from  lie  in."  He  was  forced  to  borrow 
Court.  the    bare    necessaries    of    life.     The 

mighty  had  fallen  indeed  !  This  was 
in  the  year  1529.  In  his  disgrace,  he  was  without 
friends.  The  Pope  ignored  him.  But  Queen 
Katharine — noble  in  a  kindred  sorrow — sent  words 
of  sympathy.  Death  was  approaching,  and  Wolsey 
prepared  himself  for  the  great  event  by  fasting 
and  prayer.  Ordered  to  York,  he  arrived  at  Peter- 
borough in  Easter  Week.  There,  it  is  said : 
'  Upon  Palm  Sunday,  he  went  in  procession  with 
the  monks,  bearing  his  palm  ;  setting  forth  God's 
service  right  honourably  with  such  singing  men 
as  he  then  had  remaining  with  him. 

"And  upon  Maundy  Thursday  he  made  his 
Maundy  in  Our  Lady's  Chapel,  having  fifty-nine 
poor  men,  whose  feet  he  washed,  wiped  and 
kissed ;  each  of  these  poor  men  had  twelve 
pence  in  money,  three  ells  of  canvas  to  make  them 
shirts,  a  pair  of  new  shoes,  a  cast  of  mead,  three 
red  herrings,  and  three  white  herrings,  and  the 
odd  person  had  two  shillings.  Upon  Easter  Day 
K  257 


King  Henry  VIII. 

he  rode  to  the  Resurrection — the  ceremony  of 
bringing  the  Blessed  Sacrament  from  the  sepulchre 
where  it  had  lain  since  the  Good  Friday ;  this 
took  place  early  on  Easter  Monday — and  that 
morning  he  went  in  procession  in  his  Cardinal's 
vesture,  with  his  hat  and  hood  on  his  head,  and 
he  himself  sang  there  the  High  Mass  very  devoutly, 
and  granted  Clean  Remission  to  all  the  hearers, 
and  there  continued  all  the  holidays." 

Arrived  at  York,  he  indulged  with  a  difference 
in  his  old  love  of  hospitality  ;  "he  kept  a  noble 
house  and  plenty  of  both  meat  and  drink  for  all 
comers,  both  for  rich  and  poor,  and  much  alms 
given  at  his  gates.  He  used  much  charity  and 
pity  among  his  poor  tenants  and  others."  This 
caused  him  to  be  beloved  in  the  country,  Those 
that  hated  him  owing  to  his  repute  learned  to 
love  him — he  went  among  the  people  and  brought 
them  food  and  comforted  them  in  their  troubles. 
Now  he  was  loved  among  the  poor  as  he  had  been 
feared  among  the  great. 

On  November  4th,  he  was  arrested  on  a  new 
charge  of  high  treason  and  condemned  to  the 
Tower.  He  left  under  custody  amid 
Condemned  the  lamentations  of  the  poor  people, 
to  the  who     in    their    thousands     crowded 

Tower.  round  him,  crying  "  God  save  your 

Grace  !  God  save  your  Grace  !  The 
foul  evil  take  all  them  that  hath  thus  taken  you 

258 


King  Henry  VIII. 

from  us  !  We  pray  God  that  a  very  vengeance 
may  light  upon  them."  He  remained  at  Sheffield 
Park,  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbury's  seat,  for  eighteen 
days.  Here  his  health  broke  down.  There  arrived, 
with  twenty-four  of  the  Guard  from  London,  Sir 
William  Kingston  with  an  order  to  conduct  him  to 
the  Tower.  The  next  day,  in  spite  of  increasing 
illness,  he  set  out,  but  he  could  hardly  ride  his 
mule. 

Reaching  the  Abbey  at  Leicester  on  November 

26th,  and  being  received  by  the  Benedictine  monks, 

he  said :   "  Father  Abbot,  I  am  come 

His  End.        hither    to    leave    my    bones    among 

you."     Here  he  took  to  his  last  bed, 

and  made  ready  to  meet  his  God. 

On  the  morning  of  November  29th,  he  who 
had  trod  the  ways  of  glory  and  sounded  all  the 
depths  and  shoals  of  honour,  he  who  had  shaped 
the  destinies  of  Empires,  before  whom  Popes  and 
Parliaments  had  trembled,  he  who  had  swathed 
himself  in  the  purple  of  kingdom,  of  power,  and 
of  glory,  learned  the  littleness  of  greatness  and 
entered  the  Republic  of  Death  in  a  hair-shirt. 

KATHARINE 

For  purity  and  steadfastness  of  devotion  and 
duty,  Katharine  of  Aragon  stands  unsurpassed  in 
the  history  of  the  world,  and  Shakespeare  has 
conceived  no  more  pathetic  figure  than  that  of  the 

259 


King  Henry  VIII. 

patient  Queen  living  in  the  midst  of  an  unscru- 
pulous Court. 

Daughter  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  of  Spain, 
she  was  betrothed  at  the  age  of  five  to  Arthur, 
Henry  VII. 's  eldest  son.  Though 
Her  Story.  known  as  the  Princess  of  Wales, 
it  was  not  till  1501,  when  only 
sixteen  years  old,  that  she  was  married  to  Prince 
Arthur.  She  had  scarcely  been  married  six  months 
when  Arthur  died,  at  the  early  age  of  fifteen,  and 
she  was  left  a  widow.  Henry  VII.,  in  his  desire 
to  keep  her  marriage  dower  of  200,000  crowns, 
proposed  a  marriage  between  her  and  Arthur's 
brother.  Katharine  wrote  to  her  father  saying 
she  had  "  no  inclination  for  a  second  marriage  in 
England."  In  spite  of  her  remonstrances  and  the 
misgivings  of  the  Pope,  who  had  no  wish  to  give 
the  necessary  dispensation  for  her  to  marry  her 
deceased  husband's  brother,  she  was  betrothed  to 
the  young  Henry  after  two  years  of  widowhood. 
But  it  was  not  till  a  few  months  after  Henry  VIII. 
came  to  the  throne,  five  years  later,  that  they  were 
actually  married.  Henry  was  five  years  younger 
than  Katharine,  but  their  early  married  life  appears 
to  have  been  very  happy.  She  wrote  to  her  father, 
"  Our  time  is  ever  passed  in  continual  feasts." 

The  cruel  field  sports  of  the  time  the  Queen 
never  could  take  any  delight  in,  and  avoided 
them  as  much  as   possible.     She  was   pious  and 

260 


King  Henry  VIII. 

ascetic  and  most  proficient  in  needlework.  Kath- 
arine had  a  number  of  children,  all  of  whom  died 
shortly  after  birth.  It  was  this  consideration  in 
the  first  instance  which  weighed  in  Henry's  mind 
in  desiring  a  divorce.  The  first  child  to  survive 
was  Princess  Mary,  born  in  February,  1516. 
Henry  expressed  the  hope  that  sons  would  follow. 
But  Katharine  had  no  more  living  children. 
Henry  hoped  against  hope,  and  undertook,  in  the 
event  of  her  having  an  heir,  to  lead  a  crusade 
against  the  Turks.  Even  this  bribe  to  Heaven 
proved  unavailing.  Henry's  conscience,  which  was 
at  best  of  the  utilitarian  sort,  now  began  to  suffer 
deep  pangs,  and  in  1525,  when  Katharine  was 
forty  years  old  and  he  thirty-four,  he  gave  up  hope 
of  the  much-needed  heir  to  the  throne.  The  Queen 
herself  thought  her  childlessness  was  "  a  judgment 
of  God,  for  that  her  former  marriage  was  made  in 
blood,"  the  innocent  Earl  of  Warwick  having  been 
put  to  death  owing  to  the  demand  of  Ferdinand 
of  Aragon. 

The  King  began  to  indulge  in  the  superstition 
that    his    marriage    with    a    brother's   widow   was 

marked  with  the  curse  of  Heaven. 
Katharine  It  is  perhaps  a  strange  coincidence 
and  Anne  that  Anne  Boleyn  should  have  ap- 
Boleyn.  peared  on  the  scene  at  this  moment. 

Katharine  seems  always  to  have  re- 
garded  her   rival   with   charity   and   pity.     When 

261 


King  Henry  VIII. 

one  of  her  gentlewomen  began  to  curse  Anne  as 
the  cause  of  the  Queen's  misery,  the  Queen  stopped 
her.  "  Curse  her  not,"  she  said,  "  but  rather  pray 
for  her ;  for  even  now  is  the  time  fast  coming 
when  you  shall  have  reason  to  pity  her  and  lament 
her  case." 

Undoubtedly  Katharine's  most  notable  quality 
was  her  dignity.  Even  her  enemies  regarded  her 
with  respect.  She  was  always  sus- 
Her  tained  by  the  greatness  of  her  soul, 

Dignity.  her  life  of  right  doing,  and  her  feeling 

of  being  "  a  Queen  and  daughter  of 
a  King."  Through  all  her  bitter  trials  she  went,  a 
pathetic  figure,  untouched  by  calumny.  If  she 
had  any  faults  they  are  certainly  not  recorded  in 
history.  Her  farewell  letter  to  the  King  would 
seem  to  be  very  characteristic  of  Katharine's 
oeauty  of  character.  She  knew  the  hand  of  death 
was  upon  her.  She  had  entreated  the  King,  but 
Henry  had  refused  her  request,  for  a  last  interview 
with  her  daughter  Mary. 

With  this  final  cruelty  fresh  in  her  mind  she 
still  could  write  :  "  My  lord  and  dear  husband, — 
I  commend  me  unto  you.  The  hour  of  my  death 
draweth  fast  on,  and  my  case  being  such,  the 
tender  love  I  owe  you  forceth  me  with  a  few  words, 
to  put  you  in  remembrance  of  the  health  and 
safeguard  of  your  soul,  which  you  ought  to  prefer 
before  all   worldly   matters,   and   before  the  care 

262 


King  Henry  VIII. 

and  tendering  of  your  own  body,  for  the  which 
you  have  cast  me  into  many  miseries  and  yourself 
into  many  cares.  For  my  part  I  do  pardon  you 
all,  yea,  I  do  wish  and  devoutly  pray  God  that 
He  will  pardon  you." 

ANNE    BOLEYN 

The  estimation  of  the  character  of  Anne  Boleyn 
would  seem  to  be  as  varied  as  the  spelling  of  her 

name.  She  is  believed  to  have  been 
Her  born  in  1507.     The  Boleyns  or  Bullens 

Character.       were    a    Norfolk    family    of    French 

origin,  but  her  mother  was  of  noble 
blood,  being  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Ormonde, 
and  so  a  descendant  of  Edward  I.  It  is  a  curious 
fact  that  all  of  Henry's  wives  can  trace  their 
descent  from  this  King.  Of  Anne's  early  life  little 
is  known  save  that  she  was  sent  as  Maid  of  Honour 
to  the  French  Queen  Claude.  She  was  probably 
about  nineteen  years  old  when  she  was  recalled 
to  the  English  Court  and  began  her  round  of 
revels  and  love  intrigues.  Certainly  she  was  a 
born  leader  of  men  ;  many  have  denied  her  actual 
beauty,  but  she  had  the  greater  quality  of  charm, 
the  power  of  subjugating,  the  beckoning  eye. 
An  accomplished  dancer,  we  read  of  her  "  as 
leaping  and  jumping  with  infinite  grace  and 
agility."  "  She  dressed  with  marvellous  taste 
and  devised   new  robes,"   but  of  ili<-  ladies  who 

263 


King  Henry  VIII. 

copied  her,  we  read  that  unfortunately  "  none 
wore  them  with  her  gracefulness,  in  which  she 
rivalled  Venus."  Music,  too,  was  added  to  her 
accomplishments,  and  Cavendish  tells  us  how 
"  when  she  composed  her  hands  to  play  and  her 
voice  to  sing,  it  was  joined  with  that  sweetness  of 
countenance  that  three  harmonies  concurred." 

It  is  difficult  to  speak  with  unalloyed  admira- 
tion of  Anne's  virtue.    At  the  most  charitable  com- 
putation, she  was  an  outrageous  flirt. 
Anne  Boleyn  It  would  seem  that  she  was  genuinely 
and  in  love  with  Lord   Percy,  and   that 

Wolsey.  Wolsey    was    ordered    by    the    then 

captivated  and  jealous  King  to  put 
an  end  to  their  intrigue  and  their  desire  to  marry. 
Anne  is  supposed  never  to  have  forgiven  Wolsey 
for  this,  and  by  a  dramatic  irony  it  was  her  former 
lover,  Percy,  then  become  Earl  of  Northumberland, 
who  was  sent  to  arrest  the  fallen  Cardinal  at  York. 
It  is  said  that  he  treated  Wolsey  in  a  brutal  manner, 
having  his  legs  bound  to  the  stirrup  of  his  mule 
like  a  common  criminal.  When  Henry,  in  his 
infatuation  for  the  attractive  Lady-in-Waiting  to 
his  Queen,  as  she  then  was,  wished  Wolsey  to 
become  the  aider  and  abettor  of  his  love  affairs, 
Wolsey  found  himself  placed  in  the  double  capacity 
of  man  of  God  and  man  of  Kings.  In  these  cases, 
God  is  apt  to  go  to  the  wall — for  the  time  being. 
But  it  was  Wolsey's  vain  attempt  to  serve  two 

264 


King  Henry  VIII. 

masters  that  caused  his-  fall,  which  the  French 
Ambassador  attributed  entirely  to  the  ill  offices 
of  Anne  Boleyn.  This  is  another  proof  that  courtiers 
should  always  keep  on  the  right  side  of  women. 
Nothing  could  stop  Henry's  passion  for  Anne, 
and  she  showed  her  wonderful  cleverness  in  the 

way  she  kept  his  love  alive  for  years, 
Influence  being  first  created  Marchioness  of 
with  the  Pembroke,  and  ultimately  triumphing 

King.  over  every  obstacle  and  gaining  her 

wish  of  being  his  Queen.  This  phase 
of  her  character  has  been  nicely  touched  by 
Shakespeare's  own  deft  hand.  She  was  crowned 
with  unparalleled  splendour  on  Whit  Sunday  of  1533. 
At  the  banquet  held  after  the  Coronation  of  Anne 
Boleyn,  we  read  that  two  countesses  stood  on  either 
side  of  Anne's  chair  and  often  held  a  "  fine  cloth 
before  the  Queen's  face  whenever  she  listed  to  spit." 
"  And  under  the  table  went  two  gentlewomen,  and 
sat  at  the  Queen's  feet  during  the  dinner."  The 
courtier's  life,  like  the  burglar's,  does  not  appear 
to  have  been  one  of  unmixed  happiness. 

In  the  same  year  she  bore  Henry  a  child,  but, 
to  everyone's  disappointment,   it  proved  to  be  a 

girl,  who  was  christened  Elizabeth, 
Sir  Thomas  destined  to  become  the  great  Queen 
More.  of    England.     Anne's    triumph    was 

pathetically  brief.  Her  most  im- 
portant act  was  that  of   getting   the    publication 

265 


King  Henry  VIII. 

of  the  Bible  authorised  in  England.  Two  years 
after  her  coronation,  Sir  Thomas  More,  who 
had  refused  to  swear  fealty  to  the  King's  heir 
by  Anne,  and  had  been  thrown  into  prison  and 
was  awaiting  execution,  asked  "  How  Queen 
Anne  did  ?  "  "  There  is  nothing  else  but  dancing 
and  sporting,"  was  the  answer.  "  These  dances 
of  hers,"  he  said,  "  will  prove  such  dances  that  she 
will  spurn  our  heads  off  like  footballs,  but  it  will 
not  be  long  ere  her  head  dance  the  like  dance." 
In  a  year's  time,  this  prophecy  came  true.  Her 
Lady-in-Waiting,  the  beautiful  Jane  Seymour, 
stole  the  King  from  her  who  in  her  time  had 
betrayed  her  Royal  mistress. 

There  are  two  versions  with  regard  to  her  last 
feelings  towards  the  King.  Lord  Bacon  writes 
that  just  before  her  execution  she  said  :  "  Com- 
mend me  to  His   Majesty   and   tell   him  he  hath 

ever  been  constant  in  his  career  of 
Her  Last  advancing  me.  From  a  private 
Message  to  gentlewoman  he  made  me  a 
the  King.         marchioness,  from   a   marchioness   a 

Queen ;  and  now  he  hath  left  no 
higher  degree  of  honour,  he  gives  my  innocency 
the  crown  of  martyrdom."  This  contains  a  fine 
sting  of  satire.  Another  chronicler  gives  us  her 
words  as  follows  :  "  I  pray  God  to  save  the  King, 
and  send  him  long  to  reign  over  you,  for  a  gentler 
or  more  merciful  prince  was  there  never."     One 

266 


King  Henry  VIII. 

cannot  but  think  that  this  latter  version  of  her 
dying  words  may  have  been  edited  by  his  Grace 
of  Canterbury. 

If  it  is  difficult  to  reconcile  Anne's  heartlessness 
with  her  piety,  it  should  be  remembered  that 
cruelty  is  often  the  twin-sister  of  religious  fervour. 

Whatever  may  have  been  her  failings  of  char- 
acter, whatever  misfortunes  she  may  have  suffered 
during  her  life,  Anne  will  ever  live  in  history  as 
one  of  the  master  mistresses  of  the  world. 

THE    DIVORCE 

Let  us  go  back  awhile  to  the  King's  first  wife, 
Katharine  of  Aragon. 

As  to  the  divorce,  it  will  be  well  to  clear  away 
the  enormous  amount  of  argument,  of  vitupera- 
tion and  prevarication  by  which  the  whole  ques- 
tion is  obscured,  and  to  seek  by  the  magnet  of 
common  sense  to  find  the  needle  of  truth  in  this 
vast  bundle  of  hay. 

The  situation  was  complicated.  In  those  days 
it  was  generally  supposed  that  no  woman  could 
succeed  to  the  throne,  and  a  male 
The  successor  was  regarded  as  a  political 

Succession.  necessity.  Charles  V.,  too,  was  plot- 
ting to  depose  Henry  and  to  proclaim 
James  V.  as  ruler  of  England,  or  Mary,  who  was 
to  be  married  to  an  English  noble  for  this  purpose. 

The     Duke     of     Buckingham     was     the     most 

267 


King  Henry  VIII. 

formidable  possible  heir  to  the  throne,  were  the 
King  to  die  without  male  heirs.  His  execution 
took  place  in  1521.  Desperate  men  take  desperate 
remedies.  Now,  in  1519,  Henry  had  a  natural  son 
by  Elizabeth  Blount,  sister  of  Lord  Mountjoy. 
This  boy  Henry  contemplated  placing  on  the  throne, 
so  causing  considerable  uneasiness  to  the  Queen. 
In  1525  he  was  created  Duke  of  Richmond.  Shortly 
after  he  was  made  Lord  High  Admiral  of  England 
and  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland.  It  was  suggested 
that  he  should  marry  a  Royal  princess.  Another 
suggestion  was  that  he  should  marry  his  half-sister, 
an  arrangement  which  seems  to  have  commended 
itself  to  the  Pope,  on  condition  that  Henry  aband- 
oned his  divorce  from  Queen  Katharine !  But 
this  was  not  to  be,  and  Mary  was  betrothed  to 
the  French  prince.  An  heir  must  be  obtained 
somehow,  and  the  divorce,  therefore,  took  more 
and  more  tangible  shape.  A  marriage  with  Anne 
Boleyn  was  the  next  move.  To  attain  this  object, 
Henry  applied  himself  with  his  accustomed  energy. 
His  conscience  walked  hand  in  hand  with  ex- 
pediency. 

To  Rome,  Henry  sent  many  embassies  and  to 
the  Universities  of  Christendom  much  gold,  in 
order  to  persuade  them  to  yield  to  the  dictates  of 
his  conscience.  His  passion  for  marriage-lines  in 
his  amours  was  one  of  Henry's  most  distinguishing 
qualities. 

268 


King  Henry  VIII. 

In  1527  a  union  between  Francis  I.  and  the 
Princess  Mary  was  contemplated.  Here  the  ques- 
tion of  Mary's  legitimacy  was  debated,  and  this 
gave  Henry  another  excuse  for  regarding  the 
divorce  as  necessary.  Here  was  a  "  pretty  kettle 
of  fish." 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  as  a  man  of  God, 
Wolsey  strongly  disapproved  of  the  divorce,  but 
as  the  King's  Chancellor  he  felt  him- 
Wolsey's  self  bound  to  urge  his  case  to  the 

Position.  best  of   his  ability.     He  was  in  fact 

the  advocate — the  devil's  advocate — 
under  protest.  One  cannot  imagine  a  more  terrible 
position  for  a  man  of  conscience  to  be  placed  in, 
but  once  even  a  cardinal  embarks  in  politics  the 
working  of  his  conscience  is  temporarily  suspended. 
In  world  politics  the  Ten  Commandments  are  apt 
to  become  a  negligible  quantity. 

Henry's  conscience  was  becoming  more  and 
more  tender.  Much  may  be  urged  in  favour  of  the 
divorce  from  a  political  point  of  view,  and  no  doubt 
Henry  had  a  powerful  faculty  of  self-persuasion — 
such  men  can  grow  to  believe  that  whatever  they 
desire  is  right,  that  "  there  is  nothing  cither  good 
or  bad  but  thinking  makes  it  so."  It  is  a  pity, 
however,  that  Henry's  scruples  did  not  assert 
themselves  before  the  marriage  with  Katharine 
of  Aragon,  for  the  ethical  arguments  against  such 
a  union  were  then  equally  strong.     Indeed,  these 

269 


King  Henry  VIII. 

scruples  appear  to  have  been  a  "  family  failing," 
for  Henry's  sister  Margaret,  Queen  of  Scotland, 
obtained  a  dispensation  of  divorce  from  Rome  on 
far  slenderer  grounds.  To  make  matters  worse 
for  Henry,  Rome  was  sacked — the  Pope  was  a 
prisoner  in  the  Emperor's  hands.  In  this  state 
of  things,  the  Pope  was  naturally  disinclined  to 
give  offence  to  the  Emperor  by  divorcing  his  aunt 
(Katharine  of  Aragon). 

At  all  costs,  the  Pope  must  be  set  free — on  this 
errand  Wolsey  now  set  out  for  France.  But 
Charles  V.  was  no  less  wily  than  Wolsey,  and 
dispatched  Cardinal  Quignon  to  Rome  to  frustrate 
his  endeavours,  and  to  deprive  Wolsey  of  his 
legatine  powers.  A  schism  between  Henry  and 
Wolsey  was  now  asserting  itself — Wolsey  being 
opposed  to  the  King's  union  with  Anne  Boleyn. 
("  We'll  no  Anne  Boleyns  for  him  !  ")  Wolsey 
desired  that  the  King  should  marry  the  French 
King's  sister,  in  order  to  strengthen  his  opposition 
to  Charles  V.  of  Spain. 

The  Cardinal  was  indeed  in  an  unenviable 
position.  If  the  divorce  succeeded,  then  his 
enemy,  Anne  Boleyn,  would  triumph ;  and  he  would 
fall.  If  the  divorce  failed,  then  Henry  would 
thrust  from  him  the  agent  who  had  failed  to 
secure  the  object  of  his  master.  And  in  his  fall 
the  Cardinal  would  drag  down  the  Church.  It  is 
said   that   Wolsey   secretly   opposed   the   divorce. 

270 


King  Henry  VIII. 

This  is  fully  brought  out  in  Shakespeare's  play, 
and  is  indeed  the  main  cause  of  Wolsey's 
fall. 

There  was  for  Henry  now  only  one  way  out 
of  the  dilemma  into  which  the  power  of  the  Pope 
had  thrown  him — that  was  to  obtain 
The  King's  a  dispensation  for  a  bigamous  mar- 
Dilemma.  riage.  It  seems  that  Henry  himself 
cancelled  the  proposition  before  it 
was  made.  This  scruple  was  unnecessary,  for  the 
Pope  himself  secretly  made  a  proposition  "  that 
His  Majesty  might  be  allowed  two  wives." 

The  sanction  for  the  marriage  with  Anne 
Boleyn  was  obtained  without  great  difficulty — 
but  it  was  to  be  subject  to  the  divorce  from  Katha- 
rine being  ratified.  Thus  the  King  was  faced 
with  another  obstacle.  At  this  moment  began 
the  struggle  for  supremacy  at  Rome  between 
English  and  Spanish  influence.  The  Pope  had  to 
choose  between  the  two  ;  Charles  V.  was  the  victor, 
whereupon  Henry  cut  the  Gordian  knot  by  throwing 
over  the  jurisdiction  of  Rome.  Wolsey  was  in  a 
position  of  tragic  perplexity.  He  was  torn  by 
his  allegiance  to  the  King,  and  his  zeal  for  the 
preservation  of  the  Church.  He  wrote :  "  I 
cannot  reflect  upon  it  and  close  my  eye,  for  I  sec 
ruin,  infamy  and  subversion  of  the  whole  dignity 
and  estimation  of  the  Sec  Apostolic  if  this  course 
is    persisted    in."     But   Pope   Clement   dared   not 

271 


King  Henry  VIII. 

offend  the  Emperor  Charles,  who  was  his  best, 
because  his  most  powerful  ally,  and  had  he  not 
proved  his  power  by  sacking  Rome  ?  The  Pope* 
although  quite  ready  to  grant  dispensations  for  a 
marriage  of  Princess  Mary  and  her  half-brother 
the  Duke  of  Richmond,  though  he  was  ready  to 
grant  Margaret's  divorce,  could  not  afford  to 
stultify  the  whole  Papal  dignity  by  revoking  the 
dispensation  he  had  originally  given  that  Henry 
should  marry  his  brother's  wife.  Truly  an  edifying 
imbroglio !  Henry  was  desirous  of  shifting  the 
responsibility  on  God  through  the  Pope — the  Pope 
was  sufficiently  astute  to  wish  to  put  the  responsi- 
bility on  the  devil  through  Henry.  There  was 
one  other  course  open — that  course  the  Pope 
took. 

In  1528  he  gave  a  Commission  to  Wolsey  and 
Cardinal   Campeggio  to  try  the  case  themselves, 

and  pronounce  sentence.  Back  went 
The  Pope's  the  embassy  to  England.  Wolsey 
Commission,    saw    through    the    device,     for    the 

Pope  was  still  free  to  revoke  the 
Commission.  Indeed  Clement's  attitude  towards 
Henry  was  dictated  entirely  by  the  fluctuating 
fortune  of  Charles  V.,  Emperor  of  Spain.  Mean- 
while, Charles  won  another  battle  against  the 
French,  and  the  Pope  at  once  gave  secret  instruc- 
tions to  Campeggio  to  procrastinate,  assuring 
Charles  that  nothing  would  be  done  which  should 

272 


King  Henry  VIII. 

be  to  the  detriment  of  Katharine.  The  wily 
Campeggio  (emissary  of  the  Pope)  at  first  sought 
to  persuade  Henry  to  refrain  from  the  divorce. 
Henry  refused.  Thereupon  he  endeavoured  to 
persuade  Katharine  voluntarily  to  enter  a  nunnery. 
Among  all  these  plotters  and  intriguers,  Katharine, 
adamant  in  her  virtue,  maintained  her  position  as 
lawful  wife  and  Queen. 

When  Wolsey  and  Campeggio  visited  the  Queen 
she  was  doing  needlework  with  her  maids.  It 
appears  (and  this  is  important  as  showing  the 
inwardness  of  Wolsey's  attitude  in  the  matter  of 
the  divorce)  that  "  from  this  interview  the  Queen 
gained  over  both  legates  to  her  cause ;  indeed, 
they  would  never  pronounce  against  her,  and  this 
was  the  head  and  front  of  the  King's  enmity  to  his 
former  favourite  Wolsey."  In  the  first  instance, 
Wolsey  was  undoubtedly  a  party,  however  un- 
willing, to  the  separation  of  the  King  and  Queen,  in 
order  that  Henry  might  marry  the  brilliant  and 
high-minded  sister  of  Francis  I.,  the  Duchess  of 
Alencon.  That  lady  would  not  listen  to  such  a 
proposal,  lest  it  should  break  the  heart  of  Queen 
Katharine.  Wolsey  was,  either  from  personal 
enmity  towards  Anne  Boleyn  or  from  his  estimate 
of  her  character,  or  from  both,  throughout  opposed 
to  the  union  with  that  lady. 

Subsequently  the  King  sent  to  Katharine  a 
deputation  from  his  Council  announcing  that  he 
s  273 


King  Henry  VIII. 

had,  by  the  advice  of  Cranmer,  obtained  the 
opinions  of  the  universities  of  Europe  concern- 
ing the  divorce,  and  found  several 
Trial  of  which  considered  it  expedient.  He 
Katharine.  therefore  entreated  her,  for  the 
quieting  of  his  conscience,  that 
she  would  refer  the  matter  to  the  arbitration 
of  four  English  prelates  and  four  nobles.  The 
Queen  received  the  message  in  her  chamber, 
and  replied  to  it :  "  God  grant  my  husband  a 
quiet  conscience,  but  I  mean  to  abide  by  no  de- 
cision excepting  that  of  Rome."  This  infuriated 
the  King. 

After  many  delays  and  the  appearance  of  a 
document  which  was  declared  by  one  side  to  be 
a  forgery,  and  by  the  other  to  be  genuine,  the 
case  began  on  May  31st,  1529.  In  the  great  hall 
of  Blackfriars  both  the  King  and  Queen  appeared 
in  person  to  hear  the  decision  of  the  Court.  The 
trial  itself  is  very  faithfully  rendered  in  Shake- 
speare's play.  Finding  the  King  obdurate,  Kath- 
arine protested  against  the  jurisdiction  of  the 
Court,  and  appealing  finally  to  Rome,  withdrew 
from  Blackfriars. 

Judgment  was  to  be  delivered  on  July  23rd, 
1529.  Campeggio  rose  in  the  presence  of  the 
King  and  adjourned  the  Court  till  October.  This 
was  the  last  straw,  and  the  last  meeting  of  the 
Court.     Henry  had  lost.     Charles  was  once  more 

274 


King  Henry  VIII. 

in  the  ascendant.  England  and  France  had 
declared  war  on  him  in  152S,  but  England's  heart 
was  not  in  the  enterprise — the  feeling  of  hatred 
toward  Wolsey  became  widespread.  Henry  and 
Charles  made  terms  of  peace,  and  embraced  once 
more  after  a  bloodless  and  (for  England)  somewhat 
ignominious  war.  The  French  force  was  utterly 
defeated  in  battle.  The  Pope  and  Charles  signed 
a  treaty — all  was  nicely  arranged.  The  Pope's 
nephew  was  to  marry  the  Emperor's  natural 
daughter  ;  certain  towns  were  to  be  restored  to 
the  Pope,  who  was  to  crown  Charles  with  the 
Imperial  crown.  The  participators  in  the  sacking 
of  Rome  were  to  be  absolved  from  sin  ;  the  pro- 
ceedings against  the  Emperor's  aunt,  Katharine, 
were  to  be  null  and  void.  If  Katharine  could 
not  obtain  justice  in  England,  Henry  should  not 
have  his  justice  in  Rome.  The  Pope  and  the 
Emperor  kissed  again,  and  Henry  finally  cut 
himself  adrift  from  Rome.  It  was  the  failure  of 
the  divorce  that  made  England  a  Protestant  country. 
Henry  now  openly  defied  the  Pope,  by  whom 
he    was    excommunicated,    and    so    "  deprived    of 

the  solace  of  the  rites  of  religion  ; 
The  when   he   died    he   must   lie   without 

Reformation,   burial,    and    in    hell    suffer    torment 

for  ever."  The  mind  shrinks  from 
contemplating  the  tortures  to  which  the  soul  of 
His  Majesty  might  have  been  eternally  subjected 

275 


King  Henry  VIII. 

but  for  the  timely  intervention  of  his  Grace  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  ! 

So  far  from  Henry  suffering  in  a  temporal  sense, 
he  continued  to  defy  the  opinion  and  the  power 
of  the  world.  He  showed  his  greatness  by  looking 
public  opinion  unflinchingly  in  the  face ;  by  ignoring 
he  conquered  it.  Amid  the  thunderous  roarings 
of  the  Papal  bull,  Henry  stood — as  we  see  him  in 
his  picture — smiling  and  indifferent.  "I  never 
saw  the  King  merrier  than  now,"  wrote  a  con- 
temporary in  1533.  Henry  always  had  good  cards 
— now  he  held  the  ace  of  public  opinion  up  his 
sleeve. 

Wolsey,  although  averse  to  the  Queen's  divorce 
and  the  marriage  of  Anne  Boleyn,  expressed  himself 
in  terms  of  the  strongest  opposition  to  the  over- 
bearing Pope.  A  few  days  before  the  Papal 
revocation  arrived,  the  Cardinal  wrote  thus  : 
"  If  the  King  be  cited  to  appear  at  Rome  in  person 
or  by  proxy,  and  his  prerogative  be  interfered 
with,  none  of  his  subjects  will  tolerate  it.  If  he 
appears  in  Italy,  it  will  be  at  the  head  of  a  formid- 
able army."  Opposed  as  they  were  to  the  divorce, 
the  English  people  were  of  one  mind  with  Wolsey 
in  this  attitude. 

Henry  was  not  slow  to  avail  himself  of  the 
new  development,  and  he  made  the  divorce  become 
in  the  eyes  of  the  people  but  a  secondary  considera- 
tion to  the  pride  of  England.     He  drew  the  red 

276 


King  Henry  VIII. 

herring  of  the  Reformation  across  the  trail  of  the 
divorce.  The  King  and  his  Parliament  held  that 
the  Church  should  not  meddle  with  temporal 
affairs.  The  Church  was  the  curer  of  souls,  not 
the  curer  of  the  body  politic. 

Katharine's  cause  sank  into  the  background. 
The  voice  of  justice  was  drowned  by  the  birth 
shrieks  of  the  Reformation. 

THE    REFORMATION 

We  must  remind  ourselves  that  the  divorce 
was  merely  the  irritation  which  brought  the  dis- 
content with  Rome  to  a  head.  Religious  affairs 
were  in  a  very  turbulent  state.  The  monasteries 
were  corrupt.  The  rule  of  Rome  had  become 
political,  not  spiritual.  Luther  had  worked  at 
shattering  the  pretensions  of  the  Pope  in  Europe. 
Wolsey  had  prepared  the  English  to  acquiesce  in 
Henry's  religious  supremacy  by  his  long  tenure  of 
the  whole  Papal  authority  within  the  realm  and 
the  consequent  suspension  of  appeals  to  Rome. 
Translations  of  the  New  Testament  were  beino- 
secretly  read  throughout  the  country — a  most 
dangerous  innovation — and  Anne  Boleyn,  who  had 
no  cause  to  love  the  Pope  or  his  power,  held  com- 
lete  sway  over  the  King. 

She  and  her  father  were  said  to  be  "  more 
Lutheran  than  Luther  himself."  Though  Henry 
was  anti-Papal,   he  was  never  anti-Catholic,   but, 

277 


King  Henry  VIII. 

as  the  representative  of  God,  as  head  of  his  own 
Church,  he  claimed  to  take  precedence  of  the  Pope. 
Moreover,  the  spoliation  of  the  Church  was  not 
an  unprofitable  business. 

Rome  declared  the  divorce  illegal.  Henry, 
with  the  support  of  his  Parliament,  abolished  all 
forms  of  tribute  to  Rome,  arranged  that  the  election 
of  bishops  should  take  place  without  the  inter- 
ference of  the  Pope,  and  declared  that  if  he  did 
not  consent  to  the  King's  wishes  within  three 
months,  the  whole  of  his  authority  in  England 
should  be  transferred  to  the  Crown.  This  con- 
ditional abolition  of  the  Papal  authority  was  in 
due  course  made  absolute,  and  the  King  assumed 
the  title  of  Head  of  the  Church. 

"  The  breach  with  Rome  was  effected  with 
a  cold  and  calculated  cunning,  which  the  most 
adept  disciple  of  Machiavelli  could  not  have 
excelled."— (Pollard.) 

With  an  adroitness  amounting  to  genius, 
Henry  now  used  the  moral  suasion  (not  to  use 
an  uglier  word)  of  threats  towards  the  Church  to 
induce  the  Pope  to  relent  and  to  assent  to  the 
divorce.  One  by  one,  in  this  deadly  battle,  did 
the  Pope's  prerogatives  vanish,  until  the  sacerdotal 
foundations  of  Rome,  so  far  as  England  was  con- 
cerned, had  been  levelled  to  the  ground. 

After  many  further  political  troubles  and  in- 
trigues Henry  prevailed  on  Cranmer,   now  Arch- 

278 


King  Henry  VIII. 

bishop  of  Canterbury,  as  head  of  the  Church,  to 
declare  the  marriage  between  himself  and  Kath- 
arine to  be  null  and  void,  and  five  days  later 
Cranmer  declared  that  Henry  and  Anne  Boleyn 
were  lawfully  married.  On  June  1st,  1533,  the 
Archbishop  crowned  Anne  as  Queen  in  Westminster 
Abbey.  Shortly  after  she  gave  birth  to  a  daughter, 
who  was  christened  Elizabeth,  and  became  Queen 
of  England. 

Beyond  this  incident,  with  which  the  strange 
eventful  history  of  Shakespeare's  play  ends,  it  is 
not  proposed  to  travel  in  these  notes,  which  are 
but  intended  as  a  brief  chronicle  that  may  guide 
the  play-goer  (sometimes  a  hasty  reader)  to  realise 
the  conditions  of  Henry's  reign. 


MANNERS    AND    CUSTOMS 

In  the  days  of  Henry  VIII.,  the  ways  of  society 
differed  from  our  own  more  in  observance  than  in 
spirit.  Though  the  gay  world  danced  and  gambled 
very  late,  it  rose  very  early.  Its  conversation 
was  coarse  and  lacked  reserve.  The  ladies  cursed 
freely.  Outward  show  and  ceremony  were  con- 
sidered of  the  utmost  importance.  Hats  were 
worn  by  the  men  in  church  and  at  meals,  and  only 
removed  in  the  presence  of  the  King  and  Cardinal. 
Kissing  was  far  more  prevalent  as  a  mode  of 
salutation.     The  Court  society  spent  the  greater 

279 


King  Henry  VIII. 

part  of  its  income  on  clothes.  To  those  in  the 
King's  set,  a  thousand  pounds  was  nothing  out 
of  the  way  to  spend  on  a  suit  of  clothes.  The 
predominant  colours  at  Court  were  crimson  and 
green  ;  the  Tudor  colours  were  green  and  white. 
It  was  an  age  of  magnificent  plate,  and  the  posses- 
sion and  display  of  masses  of  gold  and  silver  plate 
were  considered  as  a  sign  of  power.  Later  on  in 
Shakespeare's  time,  not  only  the  nobles,  but  also 
the  better-class  citizens  boasted  collections  of 
plate. 

A  quaint  instance  of  the  recognition  of  dis- 
tinctions of  rank  is  afforded  by  certain  "  Ordin- 
ances "  that  went  forth  as  the  "  Bouche  of  Court." 
Thus  a  duke  or  duchess  was  allowed  in  the  morning 
one  chet  loaf,  one  manchet  and  a  gallon  of  ale  ;  in 
the  afternoon  one  manchet  and  one  gallon  of  ale  ; 
and  for  after  supper  one  chet  loaf,  one  manchet, 
one  gallon  of  ale  and  a  pitcher  of  wine,  besides 
torches,  etc.  A  countess,  however,  was  allowed 
nothing  at  all  after  supper,  and  a  gentleman  usher 
had  no  allowance  for  morning  or  afternoon.  These 
class  distinctions  must  have  weighed  heavily  upon 
humbler  beings,  such  as  countesses  ;  but  perhaps 
they  consumed  more  at  table  to  make  up  for  these 
after-meal  deficiences. 

Table  manners  were  a  luxury  as  yet  undreamed 
of.  The  use  of  the  fork  was  a  new  fashion  just 
being  introduced  from  France  and  Spain. 

280 


A   NOTE   ON    THE   PRODUCTION    OF 
HENRY      VIIL      AT     HIS      MAJESTY'S 

THEATRE 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  period  of  Henry  VIII. 
was  characterised  by  great  sumptuousness  ;  in- 
deed, the  daily  life  of  the  Court  was  compact  of 
revels,  masques  and  displays  of  splendour. 

Henry  VIII.  is  largely  a  pageant  play.  As  such 
it  was  conceived  and  written;  as  such  did  we 
endeavour  to  present  it  to  the  public.  Indeed, 
it  is  obvious  that  it  would  be  far  better  not  to 
produce  the  play  at  all  than  to  do  so  without  those 
adjuncts,  by  which  alone  the  action  of  the  play 
can  be  illustrated.  Of  course,  it  is  not  possible 
to  do  more  than  indicate  on  the  stage  the  sumptu- 
ousness of  the  period  of  history  covered  by  the 
play  ;  but  it  was  hoped  that  an  impression  would 
be  conveyed  to  our  own  time  of  Henry  in  his  habit 
as  he  lived,  of  his  people,  of  the  architecture, 
and  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  that  great 
age. 

It  was  thought  desirable  to  omit  almost  in 
their  entirety  those  portions  of  the  play  which 
deal  with  the  Reformation,  being 
The  Text.  as  they  are  practically  devoid  of 
dramatic  interest  and  calculated,  as 
they  are,  to  weary  an  audience.  In  taking  this 
course,  I  felt  the  less  hesitation  as  there  can  be 

281 


King  Henry  VIII. 

no  doubt  that  all  these  passages  were  from  the 
first  omitted  in  Shakespeare's  own  representations 
of  the  play. 

We  have  incontrovertible  evidence  that,  in 
Shakespeare's  time,  Henry  VIII.  was  played  in 
"  two  short  hours." 

"...  Those  that  come  to  see 
Only  a  show  or  two  and  so  agree 
The  play  may  pass.     If    they  be  still  and  willing 
I'll  undertake  may  see  away  their  shilling 
Richly  in  two  short  hours." 

These  words,  addressed  to  the  audience  in 
the  prologue,  make  it  quite  clear  that  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  the  play  was  considered  by 
the  author  to  be  superfluous  to  the  dramatic 
action — and  so  it  is.  Acted  without  any  waits 
whatsoever,  Henry  VIII.,  as  it  is  written,  would 
take  at  least  three  hours  and  a  half  in  the  playing. 
Although  we  were  not  able  to  compass  the  per- 
formance within  the  prescribed  "  two  short  hours," 
for  we  showed  a  greater  respect  for  the  preservation 
of  the  text  than  did  Shakespeare  himself,  an 
attempt  was  made  to  confine  the  absolute  spoken 
words  as  nearly  as  possible  within  the  time  pre- 
scribed in  the  prologue. 

In  the  dramatic  presentation  of  the  play, 
there  are  many  passages  of  intensely  moving 
interest,  the  action  and  characters  are  drawn 
with  a  remarkable  fidelity  to  the  actualities.     As 

282 


King  Henry  VIII. 

has  been  suggested,  however,  the  play  depends 
more  largely  than  do  most  of  Shakespeare's  works 
on  those  outward  displays  to  realise  which  an 
attempt  was  made  on  the  stage. 

That  Shakespeare,  as  a  stage-manager,  availed 
himself  as  far  as  possible  of  these  adjuncts  is  only 
too    evident   from    the   fact   that    it 
Shakespeare     was  the  firing  of   the  cannon  which 
as  Stage  caused  a  conflagration  and  the  con- 

Manager.  sequent  burning  down  of  the  Globe 
Theatre.  The  destruction  of  the 
manuscripts  of  Shakespeare's  plays  was  probably 
due  to  this  calamity.  The  incident  shows  a 
lamentable  love  of  stage-mounting  for  which  some 
of  the  critics  of  the  time  no  doubt  took  the  poet 
severely  to  task.  In  connection  with  the  love  of 
pageantry  which  then  prevailed,  it  is  well  known 
that  Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson  were  wont  to 
arrange  the  masques  so  much  in  vogue  in  their 
time. 

The  Globe  Theatre  was  burnt  on  June  29th, 
1613.  Thomas  Lorkins,  in  a  letter  to  Sir  Thomas 
Puckering  on  June  30th,  says  :  "No 
The  Fire.  longer  since  than  yesterday,  while 
Bourbidge  his  companie  were  acting 
at  ye  Globe  the  play  of  Henry  8,  and  there  shooting 
of  certayne  chambers  in  way  of  triumph ;  the  fire 
catch  and  fastened  upon  the  thatch  of  ye  house 
and  there  burned  so  furiously  as  it  consumed  ye 

283 


King  Henry  VIII. 

whole  house  all  in  lesse  than  two  hours,  the 
people  having  enough  to  doe  to  save  them- 
selves." 

There  are  records  existing  of  many  other  pro- 
ductions of  Henry  VIII.  In  1663  it  was  produced 
at  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  as  a  pageant 
Other  Pro-  play.  The  redoubtable  Mr.  Pepys 
ductions  of  visited  this  production,  without  ap- 
the  Play.  pearing   to   have    enjoyed    the    play. 

In  later  contrast  with  him,  old 
Dr.  Johnson  said  that  whenever  Mrs.  Siddons 
played  the  part  of  Katharine,  he  would  "  hobble 
to  the  theatre  to  see  her." 

In  1707,  Henry  VIII.  was  produced  at  the 
Haymarket,  with  an  exceptionally  strong  cast ; 
in  1722  it  was  done  at  Drury  Lane,  in  which  pro- 
duction Booth  played  Henry  VIII. 

In  1727  it  was  again  played  at  Drury  Lane. 
On  this  occasion  the  spectacle  of  the  coronation 
of  Anne  Boleyn  was  added,  on  which  one  scene, 
we  are  told,  £1,000  had  been  expended.  It  will 
come  to  many  as  a  surprise  that  so  much  splendour 
and  so  large  an  expenditure  of  money  were  at  that 
time  lavished  on  the  stage.  The  play  had  an 
exceptional  run  of  forty  nights,  largely  owing,  it 
is  said,  to  the  popularity  it  obtained  through  the 
coronation  of  George  II.,  which  had  taken  place 
a  few  weeks  before. 

The  play  was  a  great  favourite  of  George  II. 

284 


King  Henry  VIII. 

and  was  in  consequence  frequently  revived  during 
his  reign.  On  being  asked  by  a  grave  nobleman, 
after  a  performance  at  Hampton  Court,  how  the 
King  liked  it,  Sir  Richard  Steele  replied  :  "  So 
terribly  well,  my  lord,  that  I  was  afraid  I  should 
have  lost  all  my  actors,  for  I  was  not  sure 
the  King  would  not  keep  them  to  fill  the  posts 
at  Court  that  he  saw  them  so  fit  for  in  the 
play." 

In  1744,  Henry  VIII.  was  given  for  the  first 
time  at  Covent  Garden,  but  was  not  revived  until 
1772,  when  it  was  announced  at  Covent  Garden 
as  "  '  Henry  VIII.,'  not  acted  for  20  years." 
The  coronation   was   again  introduced. 

Queen  Katharine  was  one  of  Mrs.  Siddons' 
great  parts.  She  made  her  first  appearance  in 
this  character  at  Drury  Lane  in  1788.  In  1808 
it  was  again  revived,  and  Mrs.  Siddons  once 
more  played  the  Queen,  Kemble  appearing  as 
Wolsey. 

In  1822,  Edmund  Kean  made  his  first  appear- 
ance as  Wolsey  at  Drury  Lane,  but  the  play  was 
only  given  four  times. 

In  1832,  the  play  was  revived  at  Covent  Garden 
with  extraordinary  splendour,  and  a  magnificent 
cast.  Charles  Kemble  played  King  Henry ;  Mr. 
Young,  Wolsey  ;  Miss  Ellen  Tree,  Anne  Boleyn  ; 
and  Miss  Fanny  Kemble  appeared  for  the  first 
time  as  Queen  Katharine.     Miss  Kemble's  success 

285 


King  Henry  VIII. 

seems  to  have  been  great.  We  are  told  that  Miss 
Ellen  Tree,  as  Anne  Boleyn,  appeared  to  great 
disadvantage ;  "  her  headdress  was  the  most 
frightful  and  unbecoming  thing  imaginable,  though 
we  believe  it  was  taken  from  one  of  Holbein's." 
In  those  days  correctness  of  costume  was  considered 
most  lamentable  and  most  laughable.  In  this 
production,  too,  the  coronation  was  substituted 
for  the  procession.  The  criticism  adds  that 
"  during  the  progress  of  the  play  the  public  seized 
every  opportunity  of  showing  their  dislike  of  the 
Bishops,  and  the  moment  they  came  on  the  stage 
they  were  assailed  with  hissing  and  hooting,  and 
one  of  the  prelates,  in  his  haste  to  escape  from 
such  a  reception,  fell  prostrate,  which  excited 
bursts  of  merriment  from  all  parts  of  the 
house." 

In  1855,  Charles  Kean  revived  the  play  with  his 
accustomed  care  and  sumptuousness.  In  this  famous 
revival  Mrs.  Kean  appeared  as  Queen  Katharine. 

Sir  Henry  Irving's  magnificent  production  will 
still  be  fresh  in  the  memory  of  many  playgoers. 
It  was  admitted  on  all  hands  to  be 
Irving's  an  artistic  achievement  of  the  highest 

Production,  kind,  and  Sir  Henry  Irving  was 
richly  rewarded  by  the  support  of 
the  public,  the  play  running  203  nights.  Miss 
Ellen  Terry  greatly  distinguished  herself  in  the 
part  of  Queen  Katharine,  contributing  in  a  large 

286 


King  Henry  VIII. 

degree  to  the  success  of  the  production.  Sir 
Henry  Irving,  in  the  part  of  Wolsey,  made  a  deep 
impression.  Mr.  William  Terriss  played  the  King. 
Mr.  Forbes  Robertson  made  a  memorable  success 
in  the  part  of  Buckingham  ;  and  it  is  interesting 
to  note  that  Miss  Violet  Vanbrugh  played  the  part 
of  Anne  Boleyn. 

An  outstanding  feature  of  the  Lyceum  produc- 
tion was  Edward  German's  music.  I  deemed 
myself  fortunate  that  this  music 
The  Music,  was  available  for  my  production. 
It  may  be  mentioned  that  Mr. 
German  composed  for  me  some  additional  numbers, 
amongst  which  is  the  Anthem  sung  in  the  corona- 
tion of  Anne  Boleyn. 

I  cannot  help  quoting  one  passage  from  Caven- 
dish at  length  to  show  how  closely 
Shakespeare  s  Shakespeare  keeps  to  the  chronicles 
ry  .    I  of  his  time.     It   will   be  found  that 

Scene  3  of  Act  I.  is  practically  iden- 
tical with  the  following  description  : — 

The  banquets  were  set  forth,  with  masks  and 
mummeries,  in  so  gorgeous  a  sort,  and  costly  manner, 
that  it  was  a  heaven  to  behold. 

.  .  .  I  have  seen  the  king  suddenly  come  in  thither 
in  a  mask,  with  a  dozen  of  other  maskers,  all  in  garments 
like  shepherds. 

.  .  .  And  at  his  coming  and  before  he  came  into  the 
hall,  ye  shall  understand  that  he  came  by  water  to  the 
water    gale,    without    any    noise ;     where,    against    his 

287 


King  Henry  VIII. 

coming,  were  laid  charged  many  chambers,  and  at  his 
landing  they  were  all  shot  off,  which  made  such  a  rumble 
in  the  air,  that  it  was  like  thunder.  It  made  all  the  noble- 
men, ladies  and  gentlewomen  to  muse  what  it  should 
mean  coming  so  suddenly,  they  sitting  quietly  at  a 
solemn  banquet.  Then  immediately  after  this  great 
shot  of  guns,  the  Cardinal  desired  the  Lord  Chamberlain, 
and  Comptroller,  to  look  what  this  sudden  shot  shoidd 
mean,  as  though  he  knew  nothing  of  the  matter.  They 
thereupon  looking  out  of  the  windows  into  Thames, 
returned  again,  and  showed  him,  that  it  seemed  to  them 
there  should  be  some  noblemen  and  strangers  arrived 
at  his  bridge,  as  ambassadors  from  some  foreign  prince. 
With  that,  quoth  the  Cardinal,  "  I  shall  desire  you, 
because  ye  can  speak  French,  to  take  the  pains  to  go 
down  into  the  hall  to  encounter  and  to  receive  them, 
according  to  their  estates,  and  to  conduct  them  into 
this  chamber,  where  they  shall  see  us,  and  all  these 
noble  personages  sitting  merrily  at  our  banquet,  desiring 
them  to  sit  down  with  us  and  to  take  part  of  our  fare 
and  pastime."  Then  they  went  incontinent  down  into 
the  hall,  where  they  received  them  with  twenty  new 
torches,  and  conveyed  them  up  into  the  chamber,  with 
such  a  number  of  drums  and  fifes  as  I  have  seldom  seen 
together,  at  one  time  in  any  masque.  At  their  arrival 
into  the  chamber,  two  and  two  together,  they  went 
directly  before  the  Cardinal  where  he  sat,  saluting  him 
very  reverently,  to  whom  the  Lord  Chamberlain  for 
them  said  :  "  Sir,  forasmuch  as  they  be  strangers,  and 
can  speak  no  English,  they  have  desired  me  to  declare 
unto  your  Grace  thus  :  they,  having  understanding  of 
this  your  triumphant  banquet,  where  was  assembled 
such  a  number  of  excellent  fair  dames,  could  do  no 
less,  under  the  supportation  of  your  good  grace,  but  to 
repair  hither  to  view  as  well  their  incomparable  beauty, 
as  for  to  accompany  them  to  mumchance,  and  then 

288 


King  Henry  VIII. 


after  to  dance  with  them,  and  so  to  have  of  them  ac- 
quaintance. And,  sir,  they  furthermore  require  of 
your  Grace  licence  to  accomplish  the  cause  of  their 
repair."  To  whom  the  Cardinal  answered,  that  he 
was  very  well  contented  they  should  do  so.  Then 
the  masquers  went  first  and  saluted  all  the  dames  as 
they  sat,  and  then  returned  to  the  most  worthiest. 
.  .  .  Then  quoth  the  Cardinal  to  my  Lord  Chamber- 
lain, "  I  pray  you,"  quoth  he,  "  show  them  that  it 
seemeth  me  that  there  should  be  among  them  some 
noble  man,  whom  I  suppose  to  be  much  more  worthy 
of  honour  to  sit  and  occupy  this  room  and  place  than 
I ;  to  whom  I  would  most  gladly,  if  I  knew  him,  surrender 
my  place  according  to  my  duty."  Then  spake  my 
Lord  Chamberlain,  unto  them  in  French,  declaring  my 
Lord  Cardinal's  mind,  and  they  rounding  him  again  in 
the  ear,  my  Lord  Chamberlain  said  to  my  Lord  Cardinal, 
"  Sir,  they  confess,"  quoth  he,  "  that  among  them 
there  is  such  a  noble  personage,  whom,  if  your  Grace 
can  appoint  him  from  the  other,  he  is  contented  to 
disclose  himself,  and  to  accept  your  place  most  worthily." 
With  that  the  Cardinal,  taking  a  good  advisement 
among  them,  at  the  last,  quoth  he,  "  Me  seemeth  the 
gentleman  with  the  black  beard  should  be  even  he." 
And  with  that  he  arose  out  of  his  chair,  and  offered 
the  same  to  the  gentleman  in  the  black  beard,  with  his 
cap  in  his  hand.  The  person  to  whom  he  offered  then 
his  chair  was  Sir  Edward  Neville,  a  comely  knight  of 
goodly  personage,  that  much  more  resembled  the  King's 
person  in  that  mask,  than  any  other.  The  King,  hear- 
ing and  perceiving  the  Cardinal  so  deceived  in  his  estima- 
tion and  choice,  could  not  forbear  laughing  ;  but  plucked 
down  his  visor,  and  Master  Neville's  also,  and  dashed 
out  with  such  a  pleasant  countenance  and  cheer,  that 
all  noble  estates  there  assembled,  seeing  the  king  to  be 
there  amongst  them,  rejoiced  very  much. 

T  289 


King  Henry  VIII. 

If  Shakespeare  could  be  so  true  to  the  actualities, 
why  should  not  we  seek  to  realise  the  scene  so 
vividly  described  by  the  chronicler  and  the  drama- 
tist ? 

In  my  notes  and  conclusions  on  "  Henry  VIII. 
and  his  Court "  I  have  been  largely  indebted  to 
the  guidance  of  the  following  books  : 

Ernest  Law's  "  History  of  Hampton  Court  "  ; 
Strickland's  "  Queens  of  England  "  ;  Taunton's 
"  Thomas  Wolsey,  Legate  and  Reformer  "  :  and 
Cavendish's  "  Life  of  Wolsey." 


AN  APOLOGY  AND  A  FOOTNOTE 
Here  I  am  tempted  to  hark  back  to  the  modern 
manner  of  producing  Shakespeare,  and  to  say  a 
few  words  in  extenuation  of  those  methods,  which 
have  been  assailed  with  almost  equal  brilliancy  and 
vehemence. 

We  are  told  that  there  are  two  different  kinds 
of  plays,  the  realistic  and  the  symbolic.  There 
are,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  nine  and  ninety  different 
kinds  of  plays ;  but  let  that  pass.  Grant  only 
two.  Shakespeare's  plays,  we  are  assured,  belong 
to  the  symbolic  category.  "  The  scenery,"  it  is 
insisted,  "  not  only  may,  but  should  be  imperfect." 
This  seems  an  extraordinary  doctrine,  for  if  it  be 
right  that  a  play  should  be  imperfectly  mounted, 
it   follows    that    it    should    be    imperfectly    acted, 

290 


King  Henry  VIII. 

and  further  that  it  should  be  imperfectly  written. 
The  modern  methods,  we  are  assured,  employed 
in  the  production  of  Shakespeare,  do  not  properly 
illustrate  the  play,  but  are  merely  made  for  vulgar 
display,  with  the  result  of  crushing  the  author 
and  obscuring  his  meaning.  In  this  assertion,  I 
venture  to  think  that  our  critic  is  mistaken  ;  I 
claim  that  not  the  least  important  mission  of  the 
modern  theatre  is  to  give  to  the  public  representa- 
tions of  history  which  shall  be  at  once  an  education 
and  a  delight.  To  do  this,  the  manager  should 
avail  himself  of  the  best  archaeological  and 
artistic  help  his  generation  can  afford  him, 
while  endeavouring  to  preserve  what  he  be- 
lieves to  be  the  spirit  and  the  intention  of  the 
author. 

It  is  of  course  possible  for  the  technically 
informed  reader  to  imagine  the  wonderful  and 
stirring  scenes  which  form  part  of  the  play  without 
visualising  them.  It  is,  I  contend,  better  to 
reserve  Shakespeare  for  the  study  than  to  see  him 
presented  half-heartedly. 

The  merely  archaic  presentation  of  the  play 
can  be  of  interest  only  to  those  epicures  who  do 
not  pay  their  shilling  to  enter  the  theatre.  The 
contemporary  theatre  must  make  its  appeal  to  the 
great  public,  and  I  hold  that  while  one  should 
respect  every  form  of  art,  that  art  which  appeals 
only  to  a  coterie  is  on  a  lower  plane  than  that 

291 


King  Henry  VIII. 

which  speaks  to  the  world.  Surely,  it  is  not  too 
much  to  claim  that  a  truer  and  more  vivid  im- 
pression of  a  period  of  history  can  be  given  by  its 
representation  on  the  stage  than  by  any  other 
means  of  information.  Though  the  archaeologist 
with  symbolic  leanings  may  cry  out,  the  theatre 
is  primarily  for  those  who  love  the  drama,  who  love 
the  joy  of  life  and  the  true  presentation  of  history. 
It  is  only  secondarily  for  those  who  fulfil  their  souls 
in  footnotes. 

Personally,  I  have  been  a  sentimental  adherent 
of  symbolism  since  my  first  Noak's  Ark.  Ever 
since  I  first  beheld  the  generous  curves  of  Mrs. 
Noah,  and  first  tasted  the  insidious  carmine  of  her 
lips,  have  I  regarded  that  lady  as  symbolical  of 
the  supreme  type  of  womanhood.  I  have  learnt 
that  the  most  exclusive  symbolists,  when  painting 
a  meadow,  regard  purple  as  symbolical  of  bright 
green  ;  but  we  live  in  a  realistic  age  and  have  not 
yet  overtaken  the  new  art  of  the  pale  future. 
It  is  difficult  to  deal  seriously  with  so  much  earnest- 
ness. I  am  forced  into  symbolic  parable.  Artemus 
Ward,  when  delivering  a  lecture  on  his  great  moral 
panorama,  pointed  with  his  wand  to  a  blur  on 
the  horizon,  and  said  :  '  Ladies  and  gentlemen, 
that  is  a  horse — the  artist  who  painted  that  picture 
called  on  me  yesterday  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and 
said  he  would  disguise  that  fact  from  me  no 
longer  !  "     He,  too,  was  a  symbolist. 

292 


King  Henry  VIII. 

I  hold  that  whatever  may  tend  to  destroy  the 
illusion  and  the  people's  understanding  is  to  be 
condemned.  Whatever  may  tend  to  heighten  the 
illusion  and  to  help  the  audience  to  a  better  under- 
standing of  the  play  and  the  author's  meaning,  is 
to  be  commended.  Shakespeare  and  Burbage, 
Betterton,  Colley  Cibber,  the  Kembles,  the  Keans, 
Phelps,  Calvert  and  Henry  Irving,  as  artists, 
recognised  that  there  was  but  one  way  to  treat 
the  play  of  Henry  VIII.  It  is  pleasant  to  sin  in 
such  good  company. 

I  contend  that  Henry  VIII.  is  essentially  a 
realistic  and  not  a  symbolic  play.  Indeed,  probably 
no  English  author  is  less  "  symbolic  "  than  Shake- 
speare. Hamlet  is  a  play  which,  to  my  mind, 
does  not  suffer  by  the  simplest  setting  ;  indeed,  a 
severe  simplicity  of  treatment  seems  to  me  to  assist 
rather  than  to  detract  from  the  imaginative  develop- 
ment of  that  masterpiece.  But  I  hold  that,  with 
the  exception  of  certain  scenes  in  The  Tempest,  no 
plays  of  Shakespeare  are  susceptible  to  what  is 
called  '  symbolic  '  treatment.  To  attempt  to 
present  Henry  VIII.  in  other  than  a  realistic 
manner  would  be  to  ensure  absolute  failure. 
Let  us  take  an  instance  from  the  text.  By 
what  symbolism  can  Shakespeare's  stage  direc- 
tions in  the  Trial  Scene  be  represented  on  the 
stage  ? 

1 A    Hull    in    Blackfriars.     Enter   two    vergers 

293 


King  Henry  VIII. 

with  short  silver  wands  ;  next  them  two  scribes 
in  the  habit  of  doctors.  .  .  .  Next  them  with 
some  small  distance,  follows  a  gentleman  bearing 
the  purse  with  the  great  seal  and  a  Cardinal's  hat ; 
then  two  priests  bearing  each  a  silver  cross ;  then 
a  gentleman  usher  bareheaded,  accompanied  with 
a  sergeant-at-arms  bearing  a  silver  mace  ;  then 
two  gentlemen  bearing  two  great  silver  pillars  ; 
After  them,  side  by  side,  the  two  Cardinals,  Wolsey 
and  Campeius  ;  two  noblemen  with  the  sword  and 
mace,"  etc. 

I  confess  my  symbolic  imagination  was  com- 
pletely gravelled,  and  in  the  absence  of  any  symbolic 
substitute,  I  have  been  compelled  to  fall  back  on 
the  stage  directions. 

Yet  we  were  gravely  told  by  the  writer  of  an 
article  that  "  all  Shakespeare's  plays  "  lend  them- 
selves of  course  to  such  symbolic  treatment.  We 
hear,  indeed,  that  the  National  Theatre  is  to  be 
run  on  symbolic  lines.  If  it  be  so,  then  God  help 
the  National  Theatre — the  symbolists  will  not. 
No  "  ism  "  ever  made  a  great  cause.  The  National 
Theatre,  to  be  the  dignified  memorial  we  all  hope  it 
may  be,  will  owe  its  birth,  its  being  and  its  pre- 
servation to  the  artists,  who  alone  are  the  guardians 
of  any  art.  It  is  the  painter,  not  the  frame-maker, 
who  upholds  the  art  of  painting  ;  it  is  the  poet,  not 
the  book- binder,  who  carries  the  torch  of  poetry. 
It  was  the  sculptor,  and  not  the  owner  of  the  quarry, 

294 


King  Henry  VIII. 

who  made  the  Venus  of  Milo.  It  is  sometimes 
necessary  to  re-assert  the  obvious. 

Now  there  are  plays  in  which  symbolism  is 
appropriate — those  of  Maeterlinck,  for  instance. 
But  if,  as  has  been  said,  Maeterlinck  resembles 
Shakespeare,  Shakespeare  does  not  resemble  Maeter- 
linck. Let  us  remember  that  Shakespeare  wis  a 
humanist,   not  a  symbolist. 

The  end  of  the  play  of  Henry  VIII.  once  more 

illustrates  the  pageantry  of  realism,  as  prescribed 

in    the     elaborate    directions    as     to 

The  End.        the     christening     of     the    new-born 

princess. 

It  is  this  incident  of  the  christening  of  the  future 
Queen  Elizabeth  that  brings  to  an  appropriate 
close  the  strange  eventful  history  as  depicted  in 
the  play  of  Henry  VIII.  And  thus  the  injustice  of 
the  world  is  once  more  triumphantly  vindicated  : 
Wolsey,  the  devoted  servant  of  the  King,  has  crept 
into  an  ignominous  sanctuary ;  Katharine  has 
been  driven  to  a  martyr's  doom  ;  the  adulterous 
union  has  been  blessed  by  the  Court  of  Bishops  ; 
minor  poets  have  sung  their  blasphemous  paeans 
in  unison.  The  offspring  of  Anne  Boleyn,  over 
whose  head  the  Shadow  of  the  Axe  is  already 
hovering,  has  been  christened  amid  the  acclama- 
tions  of  the  mob  ;  the  King  paces  forth  to  hold  the 
child  up  to  the  gaze  of  a  shouting  populace,  accom- 
panied   by    the   Court   and   the   Clergy — trumpets 

295 


King  Henry  VIII. 

blare,  drums  roll,  the  organ  thunders,  cannons 
boom,  hymns  are  sung,  the  joy  bells  are  pealing. 
A  lonely  figure  in  black  enters  weeping.  It  is  the 
Fool! 


296 


CHRONOLOGY    OF    PUBLIC    EVENTS     DURING 
THE    LIFETIME    OF    KING    HENRY    VIII 

1491.    Birth  of  Henry,  second   son   of  Henry  VII.  and 
Elizabeth  of  York. 

1501.  Marriage  of  Arthur,  Prince  of  Wales,  eldest  son 

of  Henry  VII.  and  Elizabeth  of  York, 
to  Katharine  of  Aragon,  daughter  of 
Ferdinand  and   Isabella  of  Spain. 

1502.  Death  of  Arthur,  Prince  of  Wales. 

1509.    Death  of  King  Henry  VII. 

Marriage    of    Henry    VIII.    at    Westminster 

Abbey   with    Katharine   of  Aragon,   his 

brother's  widow. 
Thomas  Wolsey  made  King's  Almoner. 

1511.  Thomas    Wolsey   called    to    the    King's    Council. 

The  Holy  League  established  by  the  Pope. 

1512.  War  with  France. 

1513.  Battles  of  the  Spurs  and  of  Flodden. 

Wolsey  becomes  Chief  Minister. 

1516.  Wolsey  made  Legate. 

Dissolution  of  the  Holy  League. 

1517.  Luther  denounces  Indulgences. 

1520.  Henry    meets    Francis    at    "  Field    of    Cloth    of 

Gold." 
Luther  burns  the  Pope's  Bull. 

1521.  Quarrel  of  Luther  with  Henry. 

Henry's   book   against   Luther   presented   to 

tin-   Pope. 
Pope  Leo  confers  on  Henry  the  title  "  Fidei 

Defensor." 

2Q7 


King  Henry  VIII. 

1522.  Renewal  of  war  with  France. 

1523.  Wolsey  quarrels  with  the  Commons  on  question 

of  20  per  eent.  property  tax. 

1525.    Benevolences  of  one-tenth  from  the  laity  and  of 
one-fourth  from  clergy  demanded. 
Exaction  of  Benevolences  defeated. 
Peace  with  France. 

1527.  Henry  resolves  on  a  Divorce. 

Sack  of  Rome. 

1528.  Pope  Clement  VII.  issues  a  commission  to  the 

Cardinals  Wolsey  and  Campeggio  for 
a  trial  of  the  facts  on  which  Henry's 
application  for  a  divorce  was  based. 

1529.  Trial  of  Queen  Katharine  at  Blackfriars  Hall. 

Katharine  appeals  to  Rome. 

Fall   of   Wolsey.     Ministry   of   Norfolk   and 

Sir  Thomas  More. 
Rise  of  Thomas  Cromwell. 

1530.  Wolsey  arrested  for  treason. 

Wolsey's  death  at  Leicester  Abbey. 

1531.  Henry  acknowledged  as  "  Supreme  Head  of  the 

Church  of  England." 

1533.    Henry  secretly  marries  Anne  Boleyn. 

Cranmer,  in  Archbishop  of  Canterbury's 
Court,  declares  Katharine's  marriage 
invalid  and  the  marriage  of  Henry  and 
Anne  lawful.  Anne  Boleyn  crowned 
Queen  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Birth  of  Elizabeth  (Queen  Elizabeth). 

1535.    Henry's   title  as   Supreme  Head  of  the   Church 
incorporated    in     the    royal     style    by 
letters  patent. 
Execution  of  Sir  Thomas  More. 
298 


King  Henry  VIII. 

1536.  English  Bible  issued. 

Dissolution  of  lesser  Monasteries. 
Death  of  Katharine  of  Aragon. 
Execution  of  Anne  Boleyn. 
Henry's  marriage  with  Jane  Seymour. 

1537.  Birth  of  Edward  VI. 

Death  of  Jane  Seymour. 
Dissolution  of  greater  Monasteries. 

1540.    Henry's  marriage  with  Anne  of  Cleves. 
Execution  of  Thomas  Cromwell. 
Henry  divorces  Anne  of  Cleves. 
Henry's  marriage  with  Catherine  Howard. 

1542.  Execution  of  Catherine  Howard. 

Completion  of  the  Tudor  Conquest  of  Ireland. 

1543.  War  with  France. 

Henry's  marriage  with  Catherine  Parr. 

1547.    Death  of  Henry.     Age  55  years  and  7  months. 
He  reigned  37  years  and  9  months. 


ON     CLOSING    THE    BOOK    THAT 
SHAKESPEARE    WROTE 


ON   CLOSING   THE    BOOK.  THAT 
SHAKESPEARE  WROTE 


HOW  different  is  the  mood  in  which  we 
approach  Shakespeare  when  we  see  his 
works  acted  on  the  stage,  and  when  we  read 
them  in  the  privacy  of  the  study  ! 

When  "  sitting  at  a  play,"  the  recipients  of 
impressions  through  the  eye  and  the  ear,  we 
abandon  ourselves  to  the  torrent  of  the  dra- 
matist's genius,  and  are  borne  along  without 
thought  or  care  of  text  or  readings.  In  the 
magic  atmosphere  of  the  theatre,  we  merely  feel 
the  throb  of  humanity  which  beats  in  the  flesh 
and  blood  of  the  poet's  creations.  How  often 
will  the  actor  by  a  flash  of  passion  illumine  a 
dark  passage  which  had  remained  obscure  in 
the  calm  twilight  of  the  library  ! 

In  the  seclusion  of  the  study  the  case  is  vastly 
different.  We  become  critical,  inquisitive,  and 
at  times  even  destructive.  We  stop  each  moment 
to    try    and    discover    some    hidden    beauty,    the 

act   meaning   of  some  obscure  allusion,   or  the 

3°  3 


On  Closing  the  Book 

comparative  value  of  alternative  suggestions.  It 
is  impossible  to  deny  that  this  practice  often  opens 
up  to  us  charms  and  treasures  unhoped  for  and 
unexpected.  Unfortunately  in  such  leisurely  and 
detailed  examination  of  a  play  we  too  often 
lose  sight  of  the  grandeur  of  its  general  theme 
and  scheme;  and  the  author's  primary  object — to 
give  a  living  expression  to  his  work  by  having  it 
acted  on  the  stage — is  obliterated. 

What  I  would  urge,  then,  is  a  study  of  the  text 
of  our  great  dramatist  supplemented,  whenever 
possible,  by  a  visit  to  the  theatre  where  the 
play  under  consideration  is  being  performed. 
Whether  Shakespeare,  in  writing  to  supply  the 
demands  of  the  contemporary  stage,  intended  a 
philosophy  deeper  than  can  be  given  forth  and 
received  at  one  presentation,  matters  little — 
the  message  of  his  work  will  reach  us  at  the 
first  hearing  of  an  intelligent  rendering.  And 
this  should  content  us.  We  know  that  Shake- 
speare's plays  were  primarily,  if  not  exclusively, 
meant  for  the  stage  ;  divorced  from  it,  no  full  ap- 
preciation of  the  dramatist's  genius  is  obtainable. 

When  reading  the  dramas  we  really  only  con- 
centrate our  attention  on  the  words  before  us,  and 
give  but  a  passing  thought  to  how  those  words  may 
be  vitalised  by  the  assistance  of  the  actor's  art, 
and  of  the  resources  at  the  command  of  the  scene- 
painter,     the     property-master,     and     the     stage- 

304 


that  Shakespeare  Wrote 

manager.      Indeed,    a    nice    examination    of    his 
stage-directions  shows  that  Shakespeare  not  only 
counted  upon  the  potentialities  of  his  own  theatre 
to  give  point  and  life  to  his  text,  but  that  he  also, 
with  the  prophetic  eye  of  his  genius,  foresaw  the 
time   when   a  later  stage  would  achieve  for  him, 
in  the  way  of  scenery,  costumes,  and  effects,  what 
the  playhouse  of  his   own  day  was  powerless  to 
accomplish.     Nearly  all  the  dramas  are  crowded 
with  scenic  directions,  and  although  very  few  of 
these  could  have  been  carried  out  to  the  letter  in 
the  author's  time,  those  that  were  attempted  must 
even  then  have  been  telling  and  effective.     It  is 
no  doubt  true  that  of  scenery  strictly  so  called 
there    was    next   to    nothing    on    the    Elizabethan 
stage  ;   but  there  was  machinery — rough  machinery 
possibly — and  on  this  Shakespeare  counted  much 
as  a  complement  to  his  spoken  words.     Are  not  the 
ghost  scenes  in  Macbeth,  Hamlet,  and  Richard  III. 
among  the  most  dramatic  that  he  wrote  ?    And  do 
not  the  visions  of  Brutus,  Queen  Katharine,   and 
Joan  of  Arc  afford  some  of  the  most  moving  that 
can  be  taken  out  of  Shakespeare's  book  and  put 
upon  the  boards  ?     Yet  all  these  depended  on  the 
machinery,  or,  as  we  should  now  term  them,  the 
"  scenic  effects  "  of  the  presentation.     Again,  look 
how  much  Shakespeare  relied  upon  the  employment 
of  big  masses  of  troops  and  attendants,  and  how 
largely   he  trusted  to  their   proper  grouping  and 

u  305 


On  Closing  the  Book 

training  for  some  of  his  most  striking  results. 
To  quote  only  three  familiar  examples — the  siege 
operations  in  Henry  V .,  the  parley  outside  the  walls 
of  Angiers  in  King  John,  and  the  Forum  Scene  in 
Julius  Caesar.  Let  anyone  carefully  consider 
this  last :  how  inadequately  do  the  mere  words 
of  Antony — eloquent  as  they  are — convey  the 
impression  intended  by  the  poet !  The  breath  of 
the  surging  multitude  is  necessary  to  fill  out  the 
sails  of  his  splendid  rhetoric.  Once  we  have  seen 
this  realised,  we  return  to  a  perusal  of  the  poet 
with  our  imagination  aflame  with  the  memory 
of  the  howling,  shifting  mob  which  the  stage  has 
presented  to  our  senses. 

In  considering  the  works  of  Shakespeare  as  a 
whole,  it  is  a  matter  of  some  wonderment  and  of 
no  less  regret  that  no  real  observation  of  child-life 
is  to  be  found  in  the  great  master's  writings.  He 
has  given  us  thirty-five  plays,  averaging  perhaps 
twenty  characters  in  each,  and  yet  (with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  purely  fantastic  fairy  element  of 
the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream)  only  seven  of 
his  works  contain  very  youthful  characters,  and 
their  number  in  all  amounts  to  but  eleven.  There 
is  Moth  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost ;  four  children 
in  Richard  III.  ;  two  in  Macbeth  ;  the  page  to 
Falstaff  in  Henry  IV.  and  Henry  V .  ;  Mamillius 
in  The  Winter's  Talc  ;  and  Prince  Henry  and 
Prince  Arthur  in  King  John.     Prince  Arthur,  how- 

306 


that  Shakespeare  Wrote 

ever,  although  by  age  but  a  boy,  appears,  by  the 
passion  and  dignity  with  which  he  is  presented, 
as  a  full-grown  man,  and  appeals  to  us  by  his 
sufferings  and  his  sayings  rather  as  an  adult  than 
an  adolescent.  His  boyhood  is  taken  from  him 
by  reason  of  the  great  political  struggle  of  which 
he  is  the  centre,  and  no  one  who  listens  to  his  words 
can  possibly  gather  that  it  is  a  child  who  speaks. 
In  fact,  whenever  in  a  play  of  Shakespeare  we 
have  children  upon  the  stage,  it  is  through  the 
tragedy  of  their  existence  that  they  figure.  It 
may  be  urged  that  children  are  seldom  real  upon 
the  stage,  and  that  our  greatest  dramatist,  with 
his  unerring  skill,  was  the  first  to  detect  their 
lack  of  the  dramatic  faculty.  Yet  having  given 
them  at  all,  it  is  impossible  to  understand  why 
Shakespeare  did  not  utilise  them  more  than 
he  did  as  the  embodiment  of  what  is  bright  and 
joyful  and  innocent  in  life  ;  and  we  can  but  feel, 
whatever  the  reason  may  have  been  for  this  omis- 
sion, that  herein  a  great  opportunity  was  neglected 
by  the  writer,  and  a  great  revelation  withheld 
from  the  reader  and  the  theatre-goer. 

The  plays  of  Shakespeare  most  suitable  for 
stage  representation  are  those  which  contain 
a  strong  love  interest;  those  which  rely  on 
our  philosophy,  or  deal  with  history,  have  not 
the  same  abiding  appeal.  Probably  the  plays 
which  are  most  popular  to-day  were  also  the  most 

3<->7 


On  Closing  the   Book 

popular  in  Shakespeare's  own  age ;  but  whereas 
in  Elizabeth's  time  the  spectators  were  chiefly 
men,  women  are  the  determining  factor  in  the 
theatre  of  to-day.  It  is  the  lack  of  the  love 
element  which  causes  such  plays  as  Timon  of 
Athens  to  be  so  rarely  seen  upon  the  modern  stage. 
Yet  that  the  intellectual  interest,  as  apart  from  the 
sentimental,  can  be  awakened  nowadays  is  proved 
by  the  fact  that  two  recent  productions  in  which 
the  love  interest  is  almost  entirely  absent  were 
popular  successes — Julius  Ccesar  and  King  John. 

In  reading  Shakespeare's  works  we  feel  how 
thoroughly  the  same  is  human  nature  under  all 
its  trappings  and  in  all  places.  Though  he  is 
careless  about  details,  he  never  strikes  a  false 
note ;  his  noble  Romans  are  Romans,  and  his 
Greeks  are  Greeks.  He  has  consulted  his  author- 
ities wisely  and  well,  and  been  as  true  as  the 
knowledge  of  his  age  enabled  him  to  be.  But  his 
types  are,  before  all,  men  and  women,  and  all 
different  each  from  the  other.  They  all  live. 
Beatrice  and  Benedick,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Mercutio 
and  Shylock,  are  more  to  us  than  the  acquaintance 
to  whom  we  bow  in  the  street,  or  the  friend  at  whose 
table  we  dine.  The  world  they  live  in  seems  more 
probable  than  the  medley  of  contradictions  of  which 
life  is  made  up.  It  is  the  poet  who  gives  "  artistic 
merit  "  to  his  subject  in  portraying  a  king  or  a 
cobbler.     The    monarch    of    Shakespeare's    pen    is 

308 


that  Shakespeare  Wrote 

often  truer  to  life  than  the  actual  man  who  ate 
and  drank,  and  woke  and  slept,  and  hoped  and 
feared,  and  loved  and  hated.  Yet  Shakespeare  is 
always  impersonal  and  impartial  in  the  drawing  of 
his  characters.  His  own  predilections  are  never 
forced  upon  the  listener.  To  each  he  gives  the 
vices  of  his  virtues  and  the  virtues  of  his 
vices.  It  is  this  daring  blending  of  the  good 
and  the  bad  that  gives  to  his  characters  that  truth 
which  the  courageous  and  inspired  artist  alone  is 
capable  of  breathing  into  them.  History  rarely 
gives  us  the  true  man — it  often  merely  records 
his  actions  without  revealing  to  us  the  motives 
which  inform  those  actions  ;  but  the  poet  reveals 
through  the  Rontgen  rays  of  his  genius  the  hidden 
depths  of  the  inner  man.  It  is  possible  to  conceive, 
therefore,  that  the  King  Richard  and  the  King 
John  of  Shakespeare  were  more  true  to  life  than 
were  the  counterfeit  presentments  of  history — 
subject  as  these  records  are  to  the  misrepresenta- 
tions of  flatterers  and  detractors,  and  subject  as 
are  the  individuals  themselves  to  self-deception 
and  hypocrisy.  Autobiographies  are  seldom  self- 
revelations.  Even  Mr.  Pepys'  candour  was  prob- 
ably not  intended  for  posthumous  consumption.  It 
may,  then,  truly  be  said  that  the  creatures  of  the 
poet's  imagination  are  our  most  intimate  friends 
rather  than  the  men  and  women  among  whom  we 
move  ;  and  that  we  win  from  the  perusal  of  the 
u*  309 


On  Closing  the  Book 

characters  so  faithfully  drawn  a  greater  insight  into 
our  common  humanity  than  can  be  gained  from  the 
snapshots  of  everyday  life.  When  we  study  Shake- 
speare to  his  depths,  we  find  in  his  works  the  key 
to  the  myriad  cells  of  the  human  heart.  The  longer 
we  look  into  the  mirror  which  he  holds  up  to  us, 
the  more  luminously  do  we  see  the  reflection  of 
ourselves  in  infinite  variety. 


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FINAL    AFTER-THOUGHT 

As  Homer's  songs  were  immortalised  through 
being  sung  by  father  to  son,  by  lover  to  lover,  so 
does  Shakespeare's  spirit  live  not  in  the  printed 
tomes  alone,  nor  in  the  musty  volumes  which  hold 
the  countless  comments  of  literary  pedants — it  lives 
most  triumphantly  (I  am  so  bold  as  to  assert)  in 
his  irresponsible  heirs,  Shakespeare's  love-children, 
who  sing  his  songs  to  each  succeeding  generation  in 
its  own  voice,  and  will  yet  carry  his  message  to 
states  unborn  in  accents  yet  unknown. 

As  it  is  the  player's  chiefest  joy  to  speak  the 
poet's  words  upon  the  stage,  so  is  it  his  high  privi- 
lege to  trace  upon  the  poet's  abiding  monument 
his  own  fleeting  name.  This  modest  ambition  is 
my  book's  apology. 


3™ 


FINI  S 


SHAKESPEAREAN  PLAYS  PRODUCED  UNDER 
HERBERT  BEERBOHM  TREES  MANAGEMENT 


AT     THE     HAYMARKET     THEATRE 
1889.     The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
1892.     Hamlet. 

1896.  King  Henry  IV.     (Part  I.) 

AT    HIS    MAJESTY'S    THEATRE 

f  Hamlet  (revival). 

1897.  '  Catherine   and    Petruchio,    being    Garrick's 

abbreviated   version  of   The   Taming  of  the 
\  Shrew. 

1898.  Julius  Caesar. 

1899.  King  John. 

I900  J  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

\  Julius  Ctesar  (revival). 

1901.  Twelfth  Night. 

1902.  Twelfth  Night  (revival). 

The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  (revival). 

1903.  King  Richard  II. 

The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  (revival). 

3'3 


1904.  The  Tempest. 

Twelfth  Night  (revival). 

The  Merry   Wives  of  Windsor  (revival). 

1905.  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

First  Annual  Shakespeare  Festival : 

King  Richard  II. 

Twelfth  Night. 

The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Hamlet. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

Julius  Csesar. 
The  Tempest  (revival). 

1906.  The  Winter's  Tale. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Second  Annual  Shakespeare  Festival  : 

The  Tempest. 

Hamlet. 

King  Henry  IV.     (Part  I.) 

Julius  Csesar. 

The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Twelfth  Night. 
King  Richard  II.  (revival). 

1907.  Third  Annual  Shakespeare  Festival  : 

The  Tempest. 
The   Winter's   Tale. 
Hamlet. 
Twelfth  Night. 
Julius  Csesar. 

The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
Berlin  Visit: 

King  Richard  II. 
Twelfth  Night. 

314 


1907.  Berlin  Visit: 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Hamlet. 

1908.  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Fourth  Annual  Shakespeare  Festival  : 
The  Merry   Wives  of  Windsor  (revival). 
The  Merchant  of  Venice. 
Twelfth  Night. 
Hamlet. 

1909.  Fifth  Annual  Shakespeare  Festival : 

King  Richard  III.      (Mr.   F.   R.   Benson  and 

Company.) 
Twelfth  Night. 

The  Merry   Wives  of  Windsor. 
Hamlet. 
Julius  Caesar. 
The  Merchant  of  Venice. 
Macbeth.    (Mr.  Arthur  Bourchier's  Company.) 

1910.  Sixth  Annual  Shakespeare  Festival : 

The  Merry   Wives  of  Windsor. 

Julius  Ceesar. 

Twelfth  Night. 

Hamlet.    (By  His  Majesty's  Theatre  Company 

and  by  Mr.  H.  B.   Irving's  Company.) 
The  Merchant  of   Venice.      (By  His  Majesty's 

Theatre    Company    and    by    Mr.    Arthur 

Bourchier's  Company.) 
King  Lear.     (Mr.  Herbert  Trench's  Company.) 
The   Taming  of  the  Shrew.     (Mr.  F.  R.  Benson 

and  Company.) 
Coriolanus.    (Mr.  F.  R.  Benson  and  Company.) 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.     (The  Elizabethan 

Stage  Society's  Company.) 

3i5 


1910.  King  Henry  V.     (Mr.   Lewis  Waller  and  Com- 

pany.) 
King  Richard  II. 
Scenes  from  Macbeth  and  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

King  Henry  VIII. 

1911.  Macbeth. 

Seventh  Annual  Shakespeare  Festival : 
A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 
Hamlet.    (Mr.  H.  B.   Irving  and  Company.) 
Julius  Csesar. 
As     You    Like    It.      (Mr.    Oscar    Asche    and 

Company.) 
The  Merchant  of  Venice. 
Twelfth  Night. 

King  Richard  III.  (Mr.  Benson  and  Company.) 
The   Taming  of   the  Shrew.     (Mr.  Benson   and 

Company.) 
King  Henry  VIII. 
The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

1912.  Othello. 

Eighth  Annual  Shakespeare  Festival: 
The  Merchant  of  Venice. 
Twelfth  Night. 
King  Henry  VIII. 
Othello. 

The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
Julius  Caesar. 

1913.  Ninth  Annual  Shakespeare  Festival: 

The  Merchant  of  Venice. 
Twelfth  Night. 
Julius  Csesar. 
Romeo  and  Juliet. 

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